Learning to Discern The Unexpressed
The question of the origin of creation, in the deepest sense, is synonymous with the curiosity about the an had or void. Even today, we continue our search in outer space for the bounds of that creation. Our ancients wanted to seek this Changeless within themselves, with their eyes shut. Within your heart dwells an eternal unborn. The Earth is the body of this unborn. It traverses the inner realms of the Earth, but the Earth does not know It. Water is Its body, and It alone floats in water, but water is ignorant of It. Brilliance is Its body, and It spreads in brilliance as its lustre, yet brilliance is unaware of It. This zephyr that flows in It is oblivious of Its existence. The firmament too is Its body, and It alone dominates the firmament from this end to that, but the firmament is uninformed. The mind is Its body and It resides in the mind as the intellect, and the intellect is uninformed. The ego is Its body and It alone sparkles in the is unapprised. It alone inhabits the consciousness and the consciousness does not sense It. It is the unsaid in the unexpressed, which is Its body, but the unexpressed does not perceive It. In the expressed, which is also indestructible, It alone dwells, and the indestructible is unfamiliar with It. It alone is the pace of death. Anyone who gets the faintest whiff of this pure, unexpressed begins to feel that all the rest is a mere chimera. How can anyone put the An had into words? Even man's creativity is dependent upon language that is of several types: Vani, vichara, madhya, pashyanti and para. Language alone gives birth to thoughts, contemplation or meditation and creativity. A concept that was ceaselessly proceeding on the path of evolution was, over time, split into several derivatives. However, despite the segregation, the focus of collective thought remained man. We say that human life is supreme; yet, we reiterate that ultimately it is miserable. Whatever the philosophy -Buddhist, Gautama Rishi's Nyayasutra, Kapil Muni's Sankhya, or Ümasvaati's Tatvaartha Sutra-the core consideration of each stream was to snap the vicious cycle of birth-death rebirth, the bhava-chakra. Observing the aggressive behaviour of the warring man over the past 2,000 years, Oswald Spengler, who wrote The Decline of the West, has expressed reservations about his bona fides. In this all-pervading disenchantment is the reassurance of the author of Das Kapital that life on earth will be more contented with the establishment of socialism -though none of the experimentations so far has realised this optimism. Why is life on this Earth so bitter? Why are joyous moments scarce? Life is a strange blend of opposites, where love-apathy, profligacy-parsimony, acquisition-relinquishment keep surfacing. A ceaseless cycle it is, reaching from the muck, the water, to the lotus. riding on the wave. Art and poetry, pure creativity, demand the open blue for their flights. First comes the letter. then the word, sentence, thought, imagination, feeling, impulse, and more. Poetry is not a relentless monologue either. It has to appeal to the common denominator, whether its source is personal agony or compassion. An oeuvre that comes from an inner turmoil could have assorted nuances; it is not monochromatic. Dejection, resentment, satire, disenchantment, too, lend their colours to it. Creativity is no commerce. Poetry is, in reality, the sacrifice of the self: an indefinable process of self-cleansing. It is a deep dive, almost a samadhi.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed in the Article above are Kailash Vajpeyi and kashmiribhatta.in is not in any way responsible for the opinions expressed in the above article. The article belongs to its respective owner or owners and this site does not claim any right over it.
Courtesy: Kailash Vajpeyi and Speaking Tree,Times of India
Learning to Discern The Unexpressed
The question of the origin of creation, in the deepest sense, is synonymous with the curiosity about the an had or void. Even today, we continue our search in outer space for the bounds of that creation. Our ancients wanted to seek this Changeless within themselves, with their eyes shut. Within your heart dwells an eternal unborn. The Earth is the body of this unborn. It traverses the inner realms of the Earth, but the Earth does not know It. Water is Its body, and It alone floats in water, but water is ignorant of It. Brilliance is Its body, and It spreads in brilliance as its lustre, yet brilliance is unaware of It. This zephyr that flows in It is oblivious of Its existence. The firmament too is Its body, and It alone dominates the firmament from this end to that, but the firmament is uninformed. The mind is Its body and It resides in the mind as the intellect, and the intellect is uninformed. The ego is Its body and It alone sparkles in the is unapprised. It alone inhabits the consciousness and the consciousness does not sense It. It is the unsaid in the unexpressed, which is Its body, but the unexpressed does not perceive It. In the expressed, which is also indestructible, It alone dwells, and the indestructible is unfamiliar with It. It alone is the pace of death. Anyone who gets the faintest whiff of this pure, unexpressed begins to feel that all the rest is a mere chimera. How can anyone put the An had into words? Even man's creativity is dependent upon language that is of several types: Vani, vichara, madhya, pashyanti and para. Language alone gives birth to thoughts, contemplation or meditation and creativity. A concept that was ceaselessly proceeding on the path of evolution was, over time, split into several derivatives. However, despite the segregation, the focus of collective thought remained man. We say that human life is supreme; yet, we reiterate that ultimately it is miserable. Whatever the philosophy -Buddhist, Gautama Rishi's Nyayasutra, Kapil Muni's Sankhya, or Ümasvaati's Tatvaartha Sutra-the core consideration of each stream was to snap the vicious cycle of birth-death rebirth, the bhava-chakra. Observing the aggressive behaviour of the warring man over the past 2,000 years, Oswald Spengler, who wrote The Decline of the West, has expressed reservations about his bona fides. In this all-pervading disenchantment is the reassurance of the author of Das Kapital that life on earth will be more contented with the establishment of socialism -though none of the experimentations so far has realised this optimism. Why is life on this Earth so bitter? Why are joyous moments scarce? Life is a strange blend of opposites, where love-apathy, profligacy-parsimony, acquisition-relinquishment keep surfacing. A ceaseless cycle it is, reaching from the muck, the water, to the lotus. riding on the wave. Art and poetry, pure creativity, demand the open blue for their flights. First comes the letter. then the word, sentence, thought, imagination, feeling, impulse, and more. Poetry is not a relentless monologue either. It has to appeal to the common denominator, whether its source is personal agony or compassion. An oeuvre that comes from an inner turmoil could have assorted nuances; it is not monochromatic. Dejection, resentment, satire, disenchantment, too, lend their colours to it. Creativity is no commerce. Poetry is, in reality, the sacrifice of the self: an indefinable process of self-cleansing. It is a deep dive, almost a samadhi.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed in the Article above are Kailash Vajpeyi and kashmiribhatta.in is not in any way responsible for the opinions expressed in the above article. The article belongs to its respective owner or owners and this site does not claim any right over it.
Courtesy: Kailash Vajpeyi and Speaking Tree,Times of India