Magic versus Magical Thinking, a Practical Guide (Part 1): Of Recipes, Rites and Action

 

In the beginning, when people were evolving, power was present in the place where one found oneself—by power, I mean the inherent dangers of a place, such as raging waters, sheer cliffs, and roaming gigantic flesh eating creatures. Survival, in such places, came to be seen as a certain sort of blessing, and the people who seemed to have better survival tools (or rather who seemed to make better choices) came to be revered. Some of those revered people, when asked to what they attributed their success at overcoming adversity, might have said something like, “I owe it to the benevolent spirit of the place,” by which they might have meant that they had learned by experience, trial and error, how to make good choices in a hostile environment. Indeed, some people are better suited to survival in certain places than others, and this can only be the result of an education by experience that teaches a type of discernment when it comes to making choices, especially when the unexpected happens. Such people, when they die, become the stuff of legends, and sometimes the legends of such people become so famous, they are turned into demi-gods.

Another scenario related to hero worship is the worship of forces of nature, such as water, air, fire, quaking earth, and the like, seen and unseen. Survival of the fittest when it comes to forces of nature is also an aspect of the power of place, where the unexpected happening can limit or endanger chances of survival.

Yet another scenario related to worship is the reverence of any thing or being that produces food. In such a scenario, corn is reverenced, wheat is reverenced, cows are reverenced, and so forth.

I will say that none of these models of reverence is inherently incorrect; these are all valid examples of reverence and respect. With reverence and respect to the powers of place, to the life-giving powers of food produced in the natural world, to exemplars of right discernment and choice, one is able to learn from past example, build on that with innovation, and survive, even to the point of producing offspring that carry the species forward in time toward newer innovation.

I will now identify an aspect of these primitive forms of reverence that I believe to be incorrect: magic.

This is not to say that magic and magical moments do not exist or that they are irrelevant. Magic is very real; it may be the most real thing there is. Magic goes back to the power of place and the power of the unexpected. Magic is an experience, an awesome and unexpected result. The error comes when people believe they can recreate a magical experience by performing a litany of rites, instead of living and experiencing, learning. The error occurs when people do not, as the heroic exemplars of the past did (or may have done), use and build on the knowledge acquired through experiences of surviving the powers of place and the unexpected to make choices, then accept responsibility for inauspicious outcomes. 

Simply put, one person’s choice might work for someone else, but this is not necessarily the case, and is most often not. In the words of a song Doris Day sang, but hated:

“Que sera, sera

Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours to see

Que sera, sera

What will be, will be

Que sera, sera.”

The Great British Bake Off television series delivers a concrete example of what I am talking about. At some point, all the participants are given the same recipe to prepare. Amazingly, the results are different for every single participant. Why? They are all using the same ingredients in the same weather conditions, with roughly identical equipment. Why is it that the results can be so different?

Recipes (receipts, in old style) are scientific formulae from the realm of the practical cook. Someone made a tasty dish and invited friends to dinner. The friends really enjoyed the dish and wanted to recreate it in their own homes, so they asked for the receipt, which was a list of ingredients, most often, including a sketchy explanation of how the ingredients were to be combined. The cook had been preparing the dish for so long, it was second nature, and they figured another (experienced) cook would know what was intended.

Here is a recipe from “Good Things to Eat as Suggested by Rufus [Estes]”:

Mushroom Sauce, Italian Style—(for macaroni, spaghetti, ravioli and rice)—a small piece of butter about the size of an egg. One or two onions, cut very small. About two pounds of beef. Let all brown. Prepare as you would pot roast. Add Italian dried mushrooms, soaked overnight in hot water, chopped in small pieces. Add about one-half can of tomatoes. Let all cook well. Salt and pepper to taste. Add a little flour to thicken. 

The beef, is it cubed or a slab of meat? Small, medium or large onions; yellow or red? What quantity of dried mushrooms? What size can of tomatoes are we talking about? Do you know how to make pot roast? Is this done in the oven or on the stovetop? What sized pot to use? Any added liquid, or do the tomatoes suffice? At what temperature? For how long?

The experienced, practical (that is, practicing) cook can take that receipt, procure the ingredients, and turn them into a delicious meal. In the hands of others, “results may vary.” And that is the truth of the matter, results do vary; life is not cast by lots, nor can the turn of a card predict outcomes—that is magical thinking. 

That’s all for now. Not sure when the next installment will be, but I can say that it will have something to do with praxis, religion, reason and governance.

All That You Touch

It is not enough
that each step moves forward
if there is neither measure,
nor meaning;
if the ground that offers support
isn’t also speaking,
or, if speaking, is not heard.

Know: All that you touch is also touching you.

Being is a reciprocity,
an opportunity and invitation
to participate in fullness, everywhere
         to glean,
                  to feel,
to make,
         to sing and
                  celebrate.

Remember: All that you touch is also touching you.

You are the butterfly sightings
the drumsongs of feet,
caught up in this epic symphony;
your instrument
is tuned to the entirety
of all that has ever been,
         of all that can ever be.

Every touch, every encounter,
is an opportunity and invitation to renew,
         to grow,
                  to learn,
         love,
                  laugh,
an invitation to linger in song.

Celebrate: All that you touch is also touching you.

An infinite smear of star dust,
twin enigmas of light and dark,
blessings of water and earth,
join in the marvel of you,
burnished by sun, wind and waves,
l’dor v’ador, in saecula saeculorum.

There is no need to discover,
the garden of wisdom,
the lake of merit,
the mountain of repose,
the vale of mysteries
—they meet on the
landscape of your soul.

For, all that you touch is also touching you.

There is no need to search for
mystical union,
for all that you touch is already touching you,
awaiting an answer to the eternal question:
“Will you be with us?”
—awaiting the resounding song of your soul,
the song of “Yes.”

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Introductions, a Memory

Out of an abundance of need,
two women
—one a sister,
the other a friendly stranger—
drew together in an embrace,
propelled by the spontaneity
only a history of sorrow might trace.

In that moment,
one of life’s mysteries
would find full flower
and understanding.

In that moment:

One realized
her sister had spun
a mantle of love and beauty
large enough to cover family,
friends and neighbors,
while inviting many others in
—a sending of
her family’s values out
to grow in the world.

The other very nearly felt
the beating heart
of the lost friend,
and knew the depth
of that rhythm’s origins
in the family,
from which she had poured forth
as lightness and love,
later fully distilled
into a golden girl child,
united now forever with,
inseparable from, her mother
in death.

Two strangers,
in that moment,
may have shared one,
perhaps the same realization,
and tightened their hold
on one another,
with a strange mixture
of tearful elation and deep sorrow:

Fiercely joyous untold love
had been unleashed into
and would live on in the world.

Parting as strangers,
never to meet again,,
each was consoled
in the knowledge that
She and her Girl,
from whatever beyond,
were continuing
to make introductions.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

in memoriam Rachel and Annika

Procrastination

Breezes shift,
stirring leaves in spirals,
stirring music of memory,
conjuring seasons past,
reasons present,
and stretching toward
regions unexplored.

Memories are fragile,
like a house of cards,
built as much with forgetting
as remembering,
and yet, and yet,
the stirring and the falling,
well, that’s all right.

Sweeping up this pile,
a thoughtful procrastination,
not to relive, but to realize
all that has been,
all that has changed,
all that has been built
because of all that came before,
a moment to pause and reflect,
a moment to cherish.

Wistful in the windswept lane,
meanings present themselves not,
but experience is the unending song,
a music built on all such themes
as sift now through my soul
and tug my vision forward.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 29. Since we were talking about words

Note to Readers: “Meditations in Fast Times” is a devotional writing experiment for the Season of Lent. Each day during the season, I am writing a poem as a meditation on, taking as my inspiration and intertextual basis, T.S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets”, as well as incorporating the daily office, current events, and other readings—some the same as those Eliot used while composing his seminal work and others.

                29.

Since we were talking about words, and words inspired us

    To perfect language and clarify understanding,

    To practice communication with using past and future,

Let me review the epic failure of that enterprise

    That we thought would bring us renown.

We spoke in tongues,
but not with the tongues of angels;
full of and with self,
we sought to be known communicants with the Divine,
rather than in community with other people,
and so our words fell flat,
spiraling downward into obscurity,
so lacking they were in music
or meaning

—if the trumpet sounds uncertainly,
how shall we understand the signal?

If we are to spread love,
it must be into the field of our life and action,
even if we never know the result of our labor.

Love of place cannot rank above love of people;
people are the servants of creation;
they are all the gardeners of Eden,
just as you are—this what memory taught me:

To be free, the self must be regularly emptied,

a sign of giving and receiving in equal measure;
emptiness is the sign of a life well spent,
regardless of any past or future claims.


Of all that I ever knew about language,
of all the words and ways,
I’d rather have just five words
that I could speak with compassion and love,
that I could be compassion and love,
that I could truly be,
and be so for everyone.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Around the Corners of Reason

you,

you are;
you are what I cannot write,
the thought I cannot have or hold,
although I breathe your very breath,
driven, as it is, from the outermost edges of imagining
and all that precedes thought, knowledge and movement.

if I can see you, touch and taste you,
I do not know it—
so near, and also so far, are you,
apprehension is fleeting,
clouded by delusions
passing around the corners of reason.

perhaps my only truth:
compared to you,
I am an insubstantial mystery of life,
spindrift on your elegant shores of expression;
you, who are without craving or curiosity,
you are indeed the fullness of time.

surely, my feeble cries of longing
add only nominally to the perpetual white noise
that spins about your profound silence,
but I pray that my effort is somehow felt
within that great science of mind
that lies beyond knowing
and sense.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

In the Garden of Delights: 3. Cuach

I have made thee,
given thee two arms
a vessel to have, to hold, to be,
to rise up, cast by and keep from harms.

Ye, I have filled,
be therefore a loving cup,
overflow with love, be spilled,
for this needy world, so hard up.

Mouth wide for song,
voice alive with vibrance;
the world to which you belong
needs your care, love, and guidance.

Centering from the calm,

I cast this oath: observe!  
I pour you out to be a balm;
not to own the world, but to serve.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

All Our Musical Offerings

Last evening’s Sanford Dole Ensemble concert of “All New – All Local” music was a wonderful experience, on many levels. Obviously, it was the culmination of a few weeks of intense individual music-learning, punctuated by a few rehearsals, not to mention life—the coming together of all the vital ingredients and the fruition of them as a live musical offering.

I cannot completely speak for composer Michael Kaulkin, but I do know that he was very pleased with the first outing of his piece, “Waiting…”

For myself, I can say that it was a much more emotional experience than I imagined it would be. The poetry that was set in “Waiting…” had been given birth long ago. Now, in the hands of someone else, the texts have taken on a new, and perhaps, more fascinating life beyond the page—a life, in fact, that I could never have imagined for them. They now occupy a sonic landscape that is to some extent beyond even the composer’s control. Being one of many performers in this premier was a very precious and beautiful experience for me.

Before the presentation of the piece, both Michael and I were asked to say a little something about how it came to be. I cannot remember everything I said—I confess to feeling extremely awkward when asked to speak extemporaneously—but here are the few things I do remember saying:

This was a collaboration done almost entirely by email—an interesting and unexpected (for me) way to collaborate. Michael had certain ideas for mood and color that I tried to match with material culled from my poetic diary. The pieces he selected were from a time period spanning twelve to thirteen years, and there were a lot of words to set! The challenge was to find a piece that had driving momentum. My work, being as it is a diary, frequently contains snapshots of static moments or moments whose time I attempt to stretch beyond a moment. Michael did find the piece that had the driving momentum he wanted, and around that, he framed the other texts.

Michael and I agreed that “meaning” would not be part of any “collaborative discussion.” As I said to the assemblage of audience and performers last night, “Yes, this piece may mean something specific to me, it may mean something specific to Michael, and to each of us on the stage—but once we put it together as a package and offer it to you, it’s yours!” What it might mean to us doesn’t matter, at that point; all that matters is what it means to you.

The enthusiastic audience response to Michael’s piece was thrilling behold.

Kudos to you, Michael, for creating this beautiful piece of music.

Thank you, Sanford Dole, for introducing me to Michael, and for programming “Waiting…” And thank you to all my colleagues in this lovely adventure: Pamela Sebastian, Ann Moss, Heidi Moss, Helene Zindarsian, Linda Liebschutz, Sally Mouzon, Heidi Waterman, Alan Cochran, Kevin Baum, John Davey-Hatcher, David Meissner, Dale Engle, Paul Thompson, Steven Rogino, Gregory Whitfield, Steven Bailey, Richard Riccardi, Mckenzie Camp, Matt Dodson, Michell Maruyama, Emanuela Nikiforova, Jason Pyszhkowski and Rachel Turner Houk. Thanks to composers Michael Kaulkin, David Conte, Peter Scott Lewis and Sanford Dole for creating new, beautiful and challenging works for us to perform.

And our deepest appreciation goes to you, the concert-goers!

All our musical offerings are for you!

Between Time

The veil is thin
—oh, we are separated
(from sight, sound and touch),
but not by much;
the signs are palpable
that you are near,
as if just ahead,
behind or far to one side,
and the gardener of Eden
has just dropped
(or discreetly stood aside from)
a sign of you in my path
—a bird feather, a colored rock,
a soft leaf or a sound of watery music
that recalls your laughter—
to remind me;
even the wind conspires
to lay your hand on my shoulder.

Ah, precious are these moments we share,
even across the unfathomable boundary,
and I am profoundly grateful
for our continued conversation:
between time is, to me, all in good time.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Selling Ourselves

I have been job hunting, for over a year. If there is anything that has come to my notice, during this time, it is that people seem to be morphing into products. (I can't call this evolving.)

Erich Fromm wrote this prescient statement in an essay, published in 1955, entitled "The Present Human Condition":

Man has transformed himself into a commodity, and experiences his life as capital to be invested profitably; if he succeeds in this he is "successful" and his life has meaning; if not, "he is a failure." His "value" lies in his salability, not in his human qualities of love and reason nor in his artistic capacities. Hence his sense of his own value depends on extraneous factors—his success, on the judgment of others. Hence he is dependent on these others, and his security lies in conformity, in never being more than two feet away from the herd.

Fromm goes on to suggest that we herded humans have become alienated "automatons." Albert Camus, along these lines, said, "Without work, all life goes rotten; but when work is soulless, life stifles and dies."

Is that what we want from the work of "making a living"? That certainly not what I want. I would venture to say that it must be true for everyone that we want to have work that is meaningful, either creative or useful.

I have seen friends turn themselves into consultants because they think that will free them from the rigors of office hours and give them "more time". Instead of freedom, they find that they are forced to work all the time, and that they have to pay the overhead that any office must pay, with regard to equipment. There is so much more to self-employment than anyone ever realizes. And sometimes the service we sell is something that could, maybe should, be given away for free, as a public service, neighbor helping neighbor.

The internet has become the perfect place marketplace for selling oneself. Well, not perfect. In fact, it is rather ugly and sick, this marketplace, with messages popping up all over, video messages yammering at you, while you are trying to find information on pages that are chock full of attention-getting blurbs that are not at all helpful to your purpose. Selling "old secrets",  rackets and scams, this sham marketplace is all hustle and no substance.

Modern life seems to be a cycle consisting of consumers who are, in turn, being consumed.

In his all but forgotten book, Good Work, E.F. Shumacher saw this cycle as a modern metaphysics he defines as "materialistic scientism."

"The world of work," as seen and indeed created by this modern metaphysics is—alas!—a dreary place. Can higher education prepare people for it? How do you prepare people for a kind of serfdom? What human qualities are required for becoming efficient servants, machines, "systems," and bureaucracies? The world of work of today is the product of a hundred years of "de-skilling"—why take the trouble and incur the cost of letting people acquire the skills of a craftsman, when what is wanted is a machine winder? The only skills worth acquiring are those which the system demands, and they are worthless outside the system. They have no survival value outside the system and therefore do not even confer the spirit of self-reliance. What does a machine winder do when (let us say) energy shortage stops his machine? Or a computer programmer without a computer?

The traditional workplace has been downsized, both of meaning and dignity. I see people now working as grocery clerks who I discern have been pushed out of professions that live by the "free market capitalism" credo of profit, profit, no matter what.

Who knows, perhaps I will soon be a grocery clerk.

These are things I have been thinking about, while I look for work.

//
Fromm, Erich. "The Present Human Condition," The American Scholar (Winter, 1955-56, Vol. 25, No. 1).
Shumacher, E.F. Good Work. Harper Colophon, 1979, p. 123.

Word for Word

We take the Word,
we make it new,

entangling it
in other words,
on the other hand,
inch by inch,
step by step,

slowly turning,
word by word;
it is like a bartering
at a swap meet,
a bargaining for
just the right one
to finish the house
we’re remodeling.

Our house,
it is a temple
and a living organ,
whose tissues need renewing
in the rivers of the latest idiom,
to be enhued by more current colors,
hanging in the designer couture
of the vibrant now.

God smiles,
even when some of it seems silly,
for even the small ineptitudes
validly contribute to the 

co-creation of all-that-is.

The Word not used
is useless;
when meaning,
when being
evolves no longer,
time stops.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen