No Past, Only Deeds that Never Die
The upsprout of all this examination of deeds is that there is no past, no past at all, but only "deeds done". Deeds are the only things that "live", and once done, they always "live". Or rather they give the power to live, which sometimes might be but the power to survive, but is always more than this.
Truly there is no past, at least not how we moderns conceive of it. There is only the great unknowable, which we know as the ever-living-present, that present drawing upon deeds done in the mystery, and drawing into it deeds that could be done but have yet to pass. The ever-living-present is a vast paradoxical conduit whereby mystery (do we not call it wyrd?) pulls itself into itself to produce the living moment.
All of the past is here right now, living in the possibilities of the moment, potentials and powers granted and endowed by great deeds, small deeds and large deeds, but deeds which have paved the possibilities.
From a frozen moment-in-time, we are substances, but from a whirling spin of time we are whirlpools, deed-opportunities winding and churning into existence itself, the ongoing momentum creating iself ever anew in this long moment. What deeds we come to pass open portals, grant gateways, make possible luck that can be called upon. A deed, that action made victory by wisdom's blessing upon brave daring, always creates luck, for those who can get and grasp it. It must be sensed and called upon.
There is no dead past. What is dead is done, a part of things ; not gone, but truly, deeply present. Present as it has never been before, participating exquisitely, turbulently, unpredictably in the ongoing, unfolding mystery.
The "past" therefore is irrelevant to us. The only thing that matters is what lives, and ancient things indeed live on most spritely, done and kneaded into things indelibly. What is the "past" to us? There are only deeds that never die.
Most of these deeds go unrecorded, unremembered. No matter. They are there, as hidden treasures, gifts of luck given by ancestors who live in the depths of this unfathomable mystery. These gifts, sensed and called upon, often sheerly through óðr, inspired imagination and poetics, offer promises of greater rewards, laying foundations, however humble, for further conquests of the hidden loot. And through this, upon and upon, deed woven knot-chain into deed like coiled serpents of the deep, the world's morning may be restored. You can sense it each dawn.
Truly there is no past, at least not how we moderns conceive of it. There is only the great unknowable, which we know as the ever-living-present, that present drawing upon deeds done in the mystery, and drawing into it deeds that could be done but have yet to pass. The ever-living-present is a vast paradoxical conduit whereby mystery (do we not call it wyrd?) pulls itself into itself to produce the living moment.
All of the past is here right now, living in the possibilities of the moment, potentials and powers granted and endowed by great deeds, small deeds and large deeds, but deeds which have paved the possibilities.
From a frozen moment-in-time, we are substances, but from a whirling spin of time we are whirlpools, deed-opportunities winding and churning into existence itself, the ongoing momentum creating iself ever anew in this long moment. What deeds we come to pass open portals, grant gateways, make possible luck that can be called upon. A deed, that action made victory by wisdom's blessing upon brave daring, always creates luck, for those who can get and grasp it. It must be sensed and called upon.
There is no dead past. What is dead is done, a part of things ; not gone, but truly, deeply present. Present as it has never been before, participating exquisitely, turbulently, unpredictably in the ongoing, unfolding mystery.
The "past" therefore is irrelevant to us. The only thing that matters is what lives, and ancient things indeed live on most spritely, done and kneaded into things indelibly. What is the "past" to us? There are only deeds that never die.
Most of these deeds go unrecorded, unremembered. No matter. They are there, as hidden treasures, gifts of luck given by ancestors who live in the depths of this unfathomable mystery. These gifts, sensed and called upon, often sheerly through óðr, inspired imagination and poetics, offer promises of greater rewards, laying foundations, however humble, for further conquests of the hidden loot. And through this, upon and upon, deed woven knot-chain into deed like coiled serpents of the deep, the world's morning may be restored. You can sense it each dawn.
posted by SiegfriedGoodfellow at 7:42 AM
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