Writer, Journalist, Book Producer & Publisher
I took this photo from our upstairs bedroom window. The single line of footsteps evoked questions for me about who might have made them. It occurred to me that even if I knew that person’s name and destination most of my questions would remain unanswered!
Note: Beta edtions of Mural Gazer stories at MuralGazer.ca
…when he saw his mother’s purse, sitting on the kitchen counter that day of his downfall, he froze, a tightrope walker quavering, struggling to regain his balance. The moral math was simple: He craved his cola; his mother had deprived him of the sugary libations that made life oh so sweet; tit-for-tat, he would deprive her of enough grocery money to buy himself a pleasure-sustaining supply of Kik. Still, he wavered. Get a Kik out of life, his jingoistic nature crooned; get a kick in the arse with a pointy shoe, a fatherly voice from up on high threatened. He teetered on the edge for a moment, then…
Harry glanced through the window, out into the garden, where his mother was busy weeding and pruning. Opportunity had presented itself, the thirst was upon him, he could either take his chance or leave it, and not expect another any time soon.
Still, he resisted the gravity of his yearning, aghast. How could he even think something so dastardly, so cunning, as to steal from his own mother… As he excoriated, himself his body slipped into an altered state, beyond the pale of ordinary consciousness. He witnessed sadly, as if in a dream, his hand reach out, fingers scrabbling like spider’s legs, prying open her purse’s lips, rummaging its contents for her wallet. He pulled it out. His breathing quickened and eyes widened as he riffled through the week’s house money, a sheaf of bills neatly sorted into their coloured denominations…
Paddling with my good friend Craig Harris yesterday down the western shore of Penelakut Island, I was haunted by an inkling of what it must have been like for a First Nations inhabitant, gliding through the same waters before the colonial era.
Much as I am enthralled by nature, I realized that I am but a tourist on the region’s land and sea; I can only imagine the deeper connection of a hunter-gatherer society, whose people ‘lived off the land’ and whose spiritual awareness was as deeply rooted and binding as that of the surrounding forests.
Before going any farther, an explanatory note: I am a Canadian of European ancestry. The influences that define me have been shaped and interpreted in that context and from that perspective. I do not want to be anything or anyone else. I do want to accept the challenges European social, scientific, and economic development and innovation have led to. The late-20th and 21st centuries have been a necessary time of reckoning. We either take responsibility for creating a better, more inclusive, more sustainable world, or accept the consequences and blame for our selfish, shortsighted decisions and behaviour.
It was from that perspective that I asked: What knowledge could we have gained from the indigenous peoples of North America and the world if only we had restrained our colonial incursions and taken time to learn from them what we had unlearned through centuries of abstracting technological and cultural development that had distanced us from the ‘natural world’?
That haunting question leapfrogged me into the present day, and a more timely consideration. What might we learn through the process of Truth and Reconciliation, as we honour the survivors of our colonial depredations and build a new relationship with them? That we are attempting such a feat makes me hopeful; if we can actually succeed, I will be truly proud as a Canadian of European ancestry.
Photo and poem were composed after I spent half an hour reviving a dying wasp I found on one of the slats of our livingroom blinds. It is a living room, after all!
OFF LEASH ZONE
Lead on! Lead on!
my old, best friend,
beyond the very end
of this leash we both
are tethered to.
Lead on! Lead on!
Even though we do not know,
and dare not say,
exactly where we’re going…
Even though there is no point
within the compass of our ancient souls
to suggest one way or another—
no brilliant star, no station of the sun
for us to fix upon.
Whichever way we face,
that becomes the direction of our knowing.
And yet you pant, and strain,
and snuffle, and sniff,
as if there were some secret
(just around the bend
or crouching under some bush)
that makes sense of it all.
Lead on! Lead on!
Beyond the very edge
of this—our flattened earth—
and be assured, for what it’s worth,
that I must surely follow,
and you are not alone.
Craig Spence
CraigSpenceWriter.ca
Oh! How I wish the letters
Of the word
Would dissolve
Into the very thing
How I would delight
In that incandescence,
That essence emerging
In my bleary dawn,
Like souls coalescing
Out of nothingness…
Engendered by the welling sun,
And the risen mist,
And the stilled air that I breathe.
Oh! How I would sigh
And beg the pending breeze
To hold off—just a moment more
And not disturb this glowing dream…
This fantasy that must always be
Precursor to despair.
Craig Spence
We tend to think of death as a sudden event—the moment we transition from life into… its opposite. In truth, death is a process we stave off every day by living. Which makes life an activity, not a state of being.
If I don’t hunt and eat, I die. If I don’t procreate, my future generations will never be. If I don’t mind my step, I will be killed by a car. Every day we must actively live, or we are likely to meet an untimely end. I must exercise and manage my diet, or my ability to live is compromised—and so it goes.
Death is part of the process of renewal. I, as an individual, make my contribution, then give way as new ideas and modes of living are born. Whole civilizations become artifacts and ultimately particles of dust in the inexhorable cycle of life. Worlds come into and pass out of being.
This perpetual struggle to survive is masked in the comfortable environments of the ‘developed world’. We don’t connect the need to work with the ongoing battle for survival. Ultimately, though, that robs our lives of meaning. We are here to give what we can, while we can.
Life is the convergence of energy, matter, and spirit in conscious, willing being. To me, the best possible life is devoted to bringing joy into the world—as much joy with as much grace as I can muster in my brief span.
My good friend Zeno says to me you can have your jam for free, nothing’s lost except by halves the future never meets the past. So in I dipped my eager blade to test this wondrous promise made. I scraped about the empty glass for evidence of my repast. Alas, the jar seemed quite remiss and jam on toast was sorely missed. Well, never mind, dear Zeno said. At least you have your daily bread and I assure you not a bite will frustrate future appetite. For once you’ve swallowed half that loaf half remains, and half’s the most. Munch and chew to hearts content, the boundless half remains unspent. Alas, I’m left with meagre crumbs and a whole whose parts are not its sum. CraigSpenceWriter.ca
A recent Facebook conversation triggered by the graphic above has shed some light on why I am a spiritual existentialist, and what that means. Before the concluding reply below, I had described my daily morning mediation, which includes a vow to ‘value life’…
‘Value life’ is an interesting ethical statement, one I affirm daily, even though it inevitably and immediately leads to contradiction. To live, I must kill. How can I square that with my ideal of valuing life?
I think that’s pertinent to the original question: What are the limits of comprehension? Try as I might, I can’t round that square ethical peg. I have to decide, and reaffirm my beliefs in spite of uncertainty. That tension between believing and knowing keeps us questioning and reevaluating who, what and why we are. It’s the essence of existentialism.
My spiritual self is always looking into the world and saying there’s more to life than I’ve learned and experienced so far. There’s a love that’s larger then what I can conceive, an idea grander than anything I can imagine, a sensation more vibrant than anything I’ve felt.
Existential Philosophy, Psychology, and Literature / Oct. 17, 2021
Summing up: The heart of spiritual existentialism is the tension between belief, doubt and hope.
Over the years I have been contemplating and expanding a set of practical ethical statements that give structure and meaning to my day-to-day activities. A clearly defined ethics synchronizes my behaviour with the world around me in a way that accords with my core beliefs.
I meditate upon the following statements most mornings, centring myself and trying to better understand my role in society and nature.
Reminding myself of these principles every day helps me become the type of person I want to be, and deepens my commitment to living well. I have no desire to convince others that these are ethical standards they should adopt; on the other hand, I believe an adult should not hesitate to articulate and explain the roots of his purposes and behaviour.
In future posts, I hope to explain more fully the implications and relationships between each of these ethical statements, and look forward to sharing ideas with others, who question their place in society and hope to make the world a better place,