Andrew

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I love this poem Mary. I love it. And the first three verses represent - more clearly than I have ever put words to - aspects the desire for death that I would like to have when the time comes. At the right time and in the right place, the longing that you describe there does seem to me like pure desire. (I might also add a verse about fire and a verse about expansion, to make five elements of dying, I think.)
Andrew
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Yes. So here I read Abraham Hicks saying that a) Desire is a fresh, free feeling of ANTICIPATING wonderful expansion. (my caps) b) The feeling of desire is truly the feeling of life flowing through you It's the anticipation of the experience and the experience itself. In fact the anticipation almost leads into the experience - it's the gurgle and rumble of water finding a new channel as it bursts down a trench or through dry leaves or parched soil. And that seems like jouissance too, as Caroline says. Then the lack thing is what we humans with our inevitable...
Andrew
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Mary, that's delicious. "I desire to be a willing participant in this relationship of desire" and "This lemon wants to ...arouse the desire of bees" and "Its desire meets and engages my desire" are vital and engaging and sexy. So is "It wants me to break open its bright yellow skin." Without the former, the latter causes trouble. But both are necessary and true. Yesterday I went through the beehive, adding space for a desirous queen, and set up an empty hive for a possible swarm of desirous bees. They were so gentle - not a cross buzz. Blissful desire....
Andrew
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This is such difficult territory, isn’t it? How do I report myself/selves reliably to myself (never mind to anyone else)? My first response is that I have no desire to care. None whatsoever. It’s quite a shock to say that. But it’s also normal for me. Fortunately, I do care. I care about all sorts of things and people and ideas and places. But I have no desire to care. I really have no say in the matter. So I can see that if I were Hannibal Lecter, I would have no desire to care and I would not care....
Andrew
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Is it, perhaps, Mary that desire becomes craving as soon as it attaches itself to an object? If we desire without desiring something, then we are spared the craving? [I do not know how to do this neat trick, of course. Except that sometimes, occasionally in car parks for some reason, it happens that I can feel suffused with desire and want absolutely nothing. It soon passes.]
Andrew
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In the Death and Dying group that I am a part of, I find myself repeatedly coming back to the concern you have highlighted here. Some others do too. We can be talking in the group about dying well, leaning well into dying, preparing ourselves one way and another -- and then dementia pulls the rug from under us. Suddenly all those good intentions fall away in the face of mindlessness. And there's little to say or do. It's pretty much too late to start spending a lifetime sleeping well and doing mental arithmetic and all that. There's a residual,...
Andrew
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This reminds me of somebody or other's advice to think carefully before drawing someone else's attention to something. That desire to 'share' the sight of the bird or the view from the cliff or the end of the rainbow can easily becoming something like 'handing the experience on' rather than having it for oneself. But I am awfully familiar with wishing there was SOMEone beside me to see that kestrel hanging, that fox sidling, that badger rolling.
Andrew
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I'm really interested in the twin aspects of naming - that it can limit and objectify and classify and distance and that it can also reveal intimacy and expand awareness and empathy and connection and understanding. I agree that there is something urgent about the moment of recognition and being able to name a plant or a bird. I remember seeing a bird flying across the rice fields in Bali and recognising the flight and knowing that it must be a member of the same family as our woodpeckers for its swooping flight. And there is the inheritance of knowing/naming...
Andrew