Psyche and spirit: a preface
When I was creating Reckonings some 15 years ago, I sought a name for one of the subjects I wanted most to explore, the relationship between psychology and spirituality, which I had come, in earlier years, to conceive as deeply and intimately twined − virtually to the point of a single integral experience. And since I was more intrigued by practice and lived life than by conceptual formulations, I chose the phrase "psyche and spirit," and began to explore their meaning in the introduction that follows below. This is the another instance, then, of my circling back upon writing that represents Reckonings in its earliest formative years. As I continue with that project of revisiting, interweaving its pieces with attention to more current themes, I realize, without surprise, that I live now much as I lived then, only a little more awake, a little more knowing, thoughtful and caring of others; there is humility, sorrow and pleasure in that recognition.
At the outset, then: psyche and soul, human development and spiritual development, are one being, one path, not two. It took me well into the presumptive years of adulthood to encounter either of them seriously. But when I did, I had the good fortune to be introduced to them together, in their commonality.
Rudolf Otto’s Das Heilige (The Sacred [1917]), is usually translated now as The Idea of the Holy. Otto drew from the words of those who sought to find some way of describing the inexpressible. Doing so, he characterized religious experience as numinous: experience of a reality that is overwhelming, awe-inspiring, at once (or on different occasions) terrifying and ecstatic, always permeated by mystery, “wholly other,” not in the sense of alien but rather different, extraordinary if one can imagine the full resonance, the furthest reaches of that word. His summary Latin phrase was mysterium tremendum et fascinans, which means in English about what one would imagine it to mean. (The Latin word numen became associated in ancient Rome with divine will, but it literally describes a nod of the head, a bow, an expression of recognition or consent, perhaps of thanks. I am fond of that ambiguity.)
In the wake of Otto’s work, it became common to distinguish between the sacred and the profane, experience possessed of that numinous quality and experience that is not: the dogged reality of every day. The interesting thing about this distinction, however, is that it is never at rest, neither hard nor fast. Any object, for example—a stone, a tree, a sip of wine, a breath of air, an apricot—can reveal itself as sacred or profane, so that its sacredness is not inherent in the object itself, but in the character or quality of relationship between knower and known, a reality requiring both an “I” and an “Other.”
That is why the distinction is between sacred and profane, not sacred and mundane. Profanity, in its deeper sense, implies impersonality, turning away, withdrawal, rather than turning towards; fragmentation or partiality rather than wholeness, absence more than presence, seeming rather than being; mask (persona) or semblance instead of authenticity, withholding rather than giving, monologue rather than dialogue, collectivity rather than community.
Circle back, then, upon the words of Rudolf Otto. If we would continue to find them attractive, experience them as an invitation rather than descriptive only of some grand annunciation beyond our ken, they must be read with care. The word “extraordinary,” for example, is much like the word “supernatural”: if we use either word carelessly, it is likely to evoke separation rather than communion. Consider them this way: the most completely, authentically ordinary and natural of all, when nothing is withheld.
Those who know the writings of Martin Buber will have already recognized how much I draw from his companionship and guidance. “Each of us,” he wrote in The Way of Man, “is encased in an armor which we soon, out of familiarity, no longer notice. There are only moments which penetrate it and stir it to sensibility. And when such a moment has imposed itself on us and we then take notice and ask ourselves, ‘Has anything particular taken place? Was it not of the kind I meet every day?’ then we may reply to ourselves, ‘Nothing particular; indeed, it is like this every day, only we are not there every day.'"
Did I really say an apricot? I was remembering W.S. Merwin’s literally lovely poem, “West Wall”:
In the unmade light I can see the world
as the leaves brighten I see the air
the shadows melt and the apricots appear
now that the branches vanish I see the apricots
from a thousand trees ripening in the air
they are ripening in the sun along the west wall
apricots beyond number are ripening in the daylight.
Whatever was there
I never saw those apricots swaying in the light
I might have stood in orchards forever
without beholding the day in the apricots
or knowing the ripeness of the lucid air
or touching the apricots in your skin
or tasting in your mouth the sun in the apricots.