Because We Are Blind We Cannot See The Color
Along comes religion. Its poetry tells us the dead are not dead but fully woven now into existence and never-to-be-banished, and this poetry comes from the lips of shamans with second sight who should know what they're talking about, when they're not crazy. So we hold this poetry. It's comforting. It's beautiful. It's rich, and it makes sense. But most of us, we have a split consciousness. We hold that poetry, and we still hold the natural, animal agnosticism that wonders.
Isn't it true everyone who's lost a loved one begins to talk to the air? And it seems meaningful. In your imagination, you can hear the voice of the loved one talking back, saying things plausible for him or her to say. You cry. You wish it were real. It may be real. Is it just your mind talking back to your mind? What is real? Everything profound seems to come through the imagination. The la and leiti wonder with animal agnosticism. The odr* knows, even when it does not know how. The la* and leiti *and odr quarrel back and forth, brothers Lodur and Hoenir have a few words. Lodur asks, "How do we solve these real problems? How do we satisfy the blood and the senses?", and Hoenir answers, "Let us consult Mimir. Let us listen to the wisdom that lies deep in the Well." Lodur is not satisfied with that answer. Give us a straight answer, stop suggesting we consult others for advice. Where does the buck stop? Hoenir says, let the imagination tend hel-ward, and find answers in the depths.
They are gone, they are gone, gone, gone, gone, we cry. Their silhouettes perhaps inform in glittering crystalline shimmerings feet from us wondering, why do they not see? Because they see with the eyes of the la and leiti, and will not see with the odr. Because the odr is held captive by the senses and not ruled by the spirit, the breath of the wind that Odin gives.
The ancients might bemoan an age when triplicities are turned topsy-turvy, spirit held thrall by la and leiti which rule above and subject the odr to themselves. An age when triplicities are turned topsy-turvy, thralls in positions of power, and philosopher-kings at the bottom, barely able to scratch out a living, let alone any glory.
Can I see you, my friend? Is it really you I imagine in my mind's eye speaking with me here? Oh, the days we debated ... would you begrudge me the simple skepticism of still wondering while you may scold me for doubting when you speak right into the ear of my odr? Do you expect more of me? Do you ask me, what faith does this heathen religion give you if you cannot know? But forgive me, my friend, I am still young, and not gifted with the second sight. I cannot see you except in my mind's eye. I know I should know better. I am a wise man acting like a fool. Or am I fool just pretending to be a wise man?
Yet you come to our friend who has second sight, and tell her I should spread the wisdom I have to the world without fear, and friend, how could I not listen, even if it were just the fancy of a dreamy mind? For you, my friend, I should hear you when you speak. I should hear you beyond my doubts. Because we are blind we cannot see the color.
And I wonder what color you see now. How you must be drinking the ur-thanc* by the Well of Mimir, old friend. How the further adventures must call you and thrill you. And I know you are looking up the Tree and saying, Ziggy, why do you not see? why weep? Weep when I am in wonder? But my friend, we have lost you here, and this world is the more cold for it!
I know. Faith. I should have faith. That you are there. That you are unerasable. That our friendship does not end with that gunshot two months ago. That of course you are there, exploring mysteries, as always. Asking questions, as always. If you are eternal, I love you. And if you are ephemeral, as all flesh fears, still, I love you, my friend, my comrade since youth. You drink from wells of wisdom ; my eyes are inundated with wells of salt water even thinking that I can be writing this to you, when all I wish is that you could be here now exploring the world. Astronomy-sessions, we called those old philosophy talks beneath the stars, do you remember, old friend? Of course you do. You will never forget. Too often it is we the living who forget. But not me. Not me.
I hope you know how much you are loved and missed. And may that add some color to the already colorful world you now stand before, worlds upon worlds in the boughs and roots of the tree, and it all was a dream, all of it, even when it was a nightmare. And do you see Gandalf at times coming through to visit? You know, my friend, that that is Odin, wandering in to speak with Mimir. Of course you know that. Far better than I. Because we are blind we cannot see the color.
I may be a dog, only seeing with black and white eyes, but like a dog, color-blind I may be, but loyal, and knowing the members of my pack. Though a dog be lowly, a dog be loyal, and no wolf ; simple, perhaps, but seeing through that place where Freya speaks to her beloved Odr, where love lies in the heart. Because we are blind we cannot see the color, but this color-blind dog howls at the moon, and hopes you hear. I'm sure you do.
* odr : the poetic mind-heart, the imagination
* la : the blood
*laeti : voice and mannerisms, the senses
* ur-thanc : primal-think, philosophy