Searching for the Old Gods



'The Hunters in the Snow' by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (1565)



Place is inescapable. Place, situation, locality, is the only constant of human existence. It is a flesh, a prison, an endowment, an anchor, a load to bear. It is impossible to transcend and it is sublime. 

A part of our species being is the relentless search for ancient wisdom. We invoke a spiritual (transcendental, divine) dimension to this found wisdom. However, the old wisdom is not the Word, but words. The truth cannot be contained in a single book, but is an ongoing process of many books. A vast multiverse of culture, art, writing, music; this is the wisdom. And what we share with the old wisdom is an earthly existence. The old wisdom, the old gods, the pagan gods, are human attributes made divine. A supernatural dimension between subject and object which explain the former’s orientation towards the latter. Landscape, art, text; these things are not separate categories but all part of the same human expression. 

Place is manifest in landscape, art and texts, in memories, songs and dreams. Stonehenge, the Gates of Hades, the M25, these are sites of significance. Dwelling places create events, situations. It is only through being situated that we can attain a sense of meaning. We long to break free of these chains, to move away from our birthplace. But wherever we move from, there is also an implicit wherever we move to. 

There are some of pagan alignment who believe we must stay with our situation, those whose prejudices are informed by this conviction. But this form of stasis is a false idol, tantamount to decay. Life is movement, difference. It is a condition of species being to desire difference and change. 

But, a road to somewhere else can only be carved through pre-existing somewheres. To be somewhere is to be alive, and truth is the recognition of this. Trusting the sensory experience and the imaginary mode of reflection and creation, finding a sense of joy in what is.  What is really sacred is what is earthly, flawed and poetic. It is walking against the wind, food and sex. It is bodily fluids, shame and exuberance. It is a sense of stillness beside the sea or the buzz of conversation. 

There is no Word, no single explanation. The best we have is a vast, ever expanding library of fragments. Life is an ongoing dialogue with these fragments, an accumulation of experiences.

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