On Being

Posted on Posted in Philosophical Notions

It amazes me how averse so many people are to accept the simple nature of being. In this age, nothing can simply BE. Everything must be dissected, analyzed, explained. Yet some things simply cannot be explained, as their inexplicableness is essential to what they are.

When I was working on my final paper for one of my classes in college, I chose the topic of the nature of inspiration and the personification of inspiration in the form of Muses. I read many “scholarly” texts for this paper and I was amazed at how little those scholars seem to actually know about transcendental sorts of things. They understand God and the creative spirit in theoretical terms, but it is obvious from their cold, lackluster explanations that they have never experienced these things for themselves. That is not to say I am an expert in such things— I’m most certainly not— but I believe I am more willing accept that something simply IS than most people seem to be.

The good majority of people I’ve met seem to be haunted by the question of: Why? If they cannot explain something, then it must not be real. They deny some of the most real powers in the world simply because they cannot be seen in empirical terms. If you cannot see something with your eyes, hear it with your ears, measure it with instruments, and pick it apart with science, then it is written off as backwards mysticism and ignorant thinking. I personally believe the exact opposite. I think if one cannot accept anything on faith, then it is he who is ignorant to the fires of the soul. The soul knows what is real and true, far more than any of our sciences and explications ever could. Man walks with his eyes turned skyward not because he understands the heavens, but because he does not understand them and that unknowableness calls to the ancient wellspring of truths in his soul.

Souls are shifting, numinous things. Their very nature is to be mysterious, and they alight at the core of each of us. If our very being is something unable to be defined in the limited language of our tongues and the concrete demands of our scientific minds, then what hope do we have for ever understanding anything? If we cannot accept our own mysteries, how can we hope to explain the mystery of everything else? Mystery is the cloth from which eternity is woven. I can think of nothing concrete and truly explainable that can last forever. Everything that endures contains an unexplainable greatness.

I think it takes a certain arrogance to assume there is nothing we cannot know. The universe is infinitely greater than we are; we are but a speck in the fleeting dust mote of human existence, a single heartbeat in the eternal lifespan of being. Where are we in the sweeping fields of our own history, in the cosmos, in the gaze of God? We are so small, so evanescent, and to me that is the greatest miracle of life: that we are so small, yet not one of us escapes the attention of God. We don’t have to explain all that in order for it to be true. The Truth does not care one iota about whether or not we believe it’s true. It simply IS true.

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