More and more I’m feeling like being human in any meaningful sense – in the sense that gives us the impetus to worship Gods, to know our place, to have respectful relationships with things rather than antagonistic ones – is a series of initiations, and that more and more, this idea of progress is so that we might achieve the “satisfaction” of that enlightenment without having worked for it. Of course, truly enlightened folk will probably tell you that satisfaction plays no part in what that knowing means.
We wish to eat without having undergone the rite of working soil or husbanding livestock. We wish to be talented without having undergone the rite of practice. We wish to know the spirits without having undergone the rite of hearing them. We wish to clothe ourselves without having known the mystery of thread. We wish to know things we don’t know, and experience things we haven’t felt, without sacrificing who we are now to who we will be afterward. We cannot suffer even symbolic death.
We have grown rigid and brittle. And sure enough, as it has always been, Someone will come along and snap us like the dry twigs we so cherish being.