Beware the Sirens of the Mind (a Postcard from Ulysses to Telemachus)
It is our destiny to surpass ourselves. This surpassing is no surpassing. It surpasses what we have become, but not what we are. What we are is endless overcoming. What we are is endless space. We try to force our movements in this space. We must overcome this forcing.
We tremble on the edge of spaciousness. Consciousness is only consciousness with. We usually choose consciousness with forcing, doing. It provides an illusion of stability and control. Consciousness with non-forcing, non-doing, this is what we want. It requires trust in gods we have not seen, some of them we never heard of. Instead of growing into what we are, we cycle through habits, memories, pleasures, and pains. We are the Sirens, Telemachus. We sing our own obsessions. The hypnotic song of thinking drones without end. Washed up on its shores, we make no progress in our journey. All forms of doing drain the sails, the thoughts and habits cast anchor and we are caught in Siren song, just an image of a ship upon the sea, no longer a living adventure. Bind yourself to what you are, then the sails bloom with fragrant air. The Sirens fade in the distance. We are already Home: the blossoms, the perfume in the sun, the clouds gathering for a majestic storm then parting again to reveal a moon bulging with sacred hymns of the night.
Beware the Sirens of the mind, my son! Let your sails burst open. Give yourself completely to the wind.
We tremble on the edge of spaciousness. Consciousness is only consciousness with. We usually choose consciousness with forcing, doing. It provides an illusion of stability and control. Consciousness with non-forcing, non-doing, this is what we want. It requires trust in gods we have not seen, some of them we never heard of. Instead of growing into what we are, we cycle through habits, memories, pleasures, and pains. We are the Sirens, Telemachus. We sing our own obsessions. The hypnotic song of thinking drones without end. Washed up on its shores, we make no progress in our journey. All forms of doing drain the sails, the thoughts and habits cast anchor and we are caught in Siren song, just an image of a ship upon the sea, no longer a living adventure. Bind yourself to what you are, then the sails bloom with fragrant air. The Sirens fade in the distance. We are already Home: the blossoms, the perfume in the sun, the clouds gathering for a majestic storm then parting again to reveal a moon bulging with sacred hymns of the night.
Beware the Sirens of the mind, my son! Let your sails burst open. Give yourself completely to the wind.