simultaneous to this monologue came the dawning awareness that my staunch position as a non-hippie is becoming untenable. my ambivalence regarding this subject is well-known, and i rue to even consider the implications of my descent into hippiedom.
sadly, however, even i find it hard to deny when the kitchen has metamorphosed from a place where food is prepared into a place where food is grown. but this is beside the point.
the point is that later that night we discussed the contents of the workshop she helped lead that night. our conversation was couched in the language of the seminar originators, but basically turned on the tension between percept, concept, and communication. to illustrate my perspective, i pointed to a book:
me: "what am i pointing to?"
yin: "Buddha."
me: "the book."
yin: "trick question."
me: "how?"
yin: "the Buddha...
the exercise highlights the everpresence and malleability of context, the contention regarding scope and scale, and the assumptions already made before we even speak a word. had i walked into the room and pointed at the object in exactly the same manner, her answer would have likely been "book." the room was the context; the book became the text.
but - by picking up the book - the context was collapsed into the rectangle, drawing emphasis to the image and eliciting her answer. all this happens simply by virtue of living and operating in the world, by nothing more than believing in this maya enough to feed and breathe and drink our bodies.
the presumption that the size of our own context is undeniable, universal, or commonsensical is both absurd and damaging. there are (at least) as many ways of Being as there are beings, and one of the things i love about my yin is her willingness to indulge my fondness for engaging these matters while lying in bed.
you knew what i would say."
the exercise highlights the everpresence and malleability of context, the contention regarding scope and scale, and the assumptions already made before we even speak a word. had i walked into the room and pointed at the object in exactly the same manner, her answer would have likely been "book." the room was the context; the book became the text.
(so to speak.)
but - by picking up the book - the context was collapsed into the rectangle, drawing emphasis to the image and eliciting her answer. all this happens simply by virtue of living and operating in the world, by nothing more than believing in this maya enough to feed and breathe and drink our bodies.
(so what?)
the presumption that the size of our own context is undeniable, universal, or commonsensical is both absurd and damaging. there are (at least) as many ways of Being as there are beings, and one of the things i love about my yin is her willingness to indulge my fondness for engaging these matters while lying in bed.
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