I am he who puts together….

November 22nd, 5:00, streetlights on, car lights crossing the Fremont bridge reflecting off the wet pavement.  The day done.  A kind of dance continuing.   I continue my reading in Religion in Human Evolution,  reaching the stage of ritual, of myth, the development of language.  Robert Bellah quotes Morris Berman’s quote from a Mazatec Indian shaman:  I am he who puts together  [135].

It’s worth noting that the word analysis means to separate: in short, to take apart.  

To put together:  this is to heal, from an Old English root also related to the Old English halig,  holy, and hal,  meaning hale or whole.  This is the work of putting together.  To cohere:  to make coherent.  And the question is whether this is putting together that which is inherently chaotic, even meaningless, or whether it is an act an act that mirrors what is, which is in fact already put together, already in some sense coherent some sense whole. 

Does the universe already make sense?  Is it whole, halig, hal?  Does it proclaim Wassail?

I think of Hemingway, a clean well lighted place, the darkness surrounding the tavern, darkness of war, of the cosmos:  all it needs is a little order, a little light,  which hemingway’s prose can temporarily provide….

So here’s the blog.  A story of Fremont, traffic, rain.  The sound of an espresso machine and a Bach.  There’s a shaman for you, the one who puts together.  That place where poetry dwells, what  George MacDonald (whom my students are also writing on) calls Fairy Land,  found in the depth of the eyes of the beautiful Grandmother:  they filled me with an unknown longing . . . .  I looked deeper and deeper, till they spread around me like seas, and I sank into their waters . . . .  

There is this beauty also in the rain, in the dark of a November day.  An intimacy, a stillness: the lights of houses, a café.  We await birth.  We await resurrection.