Child’s play

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

Inside the play-ground an absolute and peculiar order reigns. Here we come across another, very positive feature of play: it creates order, it is order. Into an imperfect world it brings a temporary, a limited perfection. Play demands order absolute and supreme. The least deviation from it “spoils the game,” robs it of its character and makes it worthless.
– Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture (Beacon Press, 1950)

The hasidim tell the story of Rabbi Baruch, whose grandson Yechiel was playing hide-and-seek with a friend. Yechiel hid himself cleverly and waited for his friend, who never came to find him. Realizing that he had been abandoned, he ran crying to his grandfather and complained about his faithless friend. Rabbi Baruch’s eyes, too, filled with tears, as he told the young boy: God says the same thing: I hide, but no one wants to seek Me!
– Rabbi Amy R. Scheinerman, ELUL WEEK 1 — RESPONSIBILITY (via Velveteen Rabbi)

I hid too well. I lay under the tarp in plain view and willed myself into a clump of weeds, a mound of dirt. Springtails and inchworms began to claim me as an extension of their territories. A daddy longlegs scaled my torso and ran across my face, palpae ghosting over the Braille of my cheek and forehead.

My niece ran around the house, peering into all the obvious places, hollering my name. I lay still, certain the slight crepitating of the tarp in time with my breathing would give me away. But in less than ten minutes, everything was quiet. A vole began rustling against one of the corners farthest from my head, and I began to think my presence there was unwelcome. But I waited, trusting that the seeker would not abandon the chase without signaling surrender.

I’m not normally inclined to claustrophobia, but after twenty minutes it got too hot under the tarp and I had to get out. I eased it off me as quietly as I could and stumbled to my feet, dislodging several ants and caterpillars in the process. The thing to do now, I thought, was creep around the house and take a seat on the verandah, where she’d find me right before she gave up.

But when I rounded the corner of my parent’s house, there she and my dad sat, reading a book together. “Where were you?” she asked with feigned unconcern. I stood there blinking in confusion. “Where did you hide?” she persisted. I brushed at an imaginary spider. “You think I’m telling you? Don’t you even know how to play hide-and-go-seek?” I demanded angrily.

But of course she didn’t know. Without siblings, and with precious few playmates her own age down in Mississippi, where would she ever have learned the rules of engagement?


Thhhnk! Thhhnk! Thhhnk! Eva’s fist slams into my diaphragm with all the strength she can muster. She stands with one foot forward, in prizefighter form. Then for variation she crouches and aims a karate kick at my head. “Hey! Where did you learn to do that?” I barely dodge in time, grabbing her foot. “From watching my mommy!” Then she’s back to punching my flabby gut.

“Does your dad let you do this to him?”

“Uh, well, I don’t know. I guess not.”

“So why pick on me?” I whine. “Can’t you pick on someone your own size?”

She giggles. “No! I only punch my Uncle Dave! Because I know you’re FIERCE!”

If only that were true, I think to myself – but already the game has morphed into something else. “I LOVE you, Uncle Dave!” she says in her most melodramatic voice, throwing her arms around me. Good grief! What next?

There’s no question the kid’s got brains: it didn’t take her long to figure out the one kind of attack I’m not very good at fending off. “Put your arms around me!” she commands. I reluctantly comply, thinking: another eight years and this girl’s gonna be hell on ice.


The crudely drawn map had shown only a few, tentative landmarks – lines that might or might not have been trails, an “x” showing where the treasure chest had been hidden “at ye base of ye white pine tree between two okes.” Additional inscriptions hinted at the forbidding nature of the terrain: “BEWARE: Many Spyders,” and “here there bee squirrels.”

The doughty female pirate, accompanied by her two chief scientists, was unperturbed. She hacked mercilessly at the webs of the spiny micrathena with her vorple, cardboard blade. Any squirrels that hadn’t fled at the sound of her bloodthirsty cries must’ve been struck dumb by the terrible device with which her shield was emblazoned: a skull swimming in a pool of blood, encircled by a ring of fire. It looked a bit like the cover of a Slayer album.

Even with the help of scientists, the map’s instructions were difficult to follow. Where was that scurvy pine tree? Disoriented, they found themselves stumbling in circles, the thick vegetation tearing at their clothes, vultures circling. But just as they were about to abandon the search, the chief scientist spotted a scrubby sapling with dark needles. “Hey, there’s another pine tree! And look, there’s the chest!”

And there it was, a classic, green sea chest with tarnished brass fittings, gleaming in a patch of sunlight. Eva let out a triumphal shriek, and she and her grandpa pushed their way through the laurel to claim their prize. But just then they heard a crashing noise off to their right, the sound of pirate boots scuffling on dry leaves. Sun flashed on metal. The air filled with the smell of brimstone. They stood transfixed with horror as the apparition hove into view: a bearded, black-bandanna’d pirate ghost clenching a scimitar-shaped machete between yellow teeth. “WHO DARES DISTURB THE LOST TREASURE OF PLUMMER’S HOLLOW?”


“Have at ye!”


The fight was long and – needless to say – terrible. Blood was curdled. Timbers were shivered. When it was over, the undead defender of the lost treasure lay in a pool of gore, torn limb from limb. The female pirate and her assistants ignored the threats of revenge that still issued in a hoarse whisper from his bloody lips. They broke the lock on the chest and lifted the lid: another strongbox! They tore savagely at the duct tape. Oh my god! Styrofoam packing peanuts!

A small jewelry case lay hidden at the bottom of the box. Cautious now despite her great excitement, Eva pried it open. At last, the treasure was hers! It sparkled between thumb and forefinger as she gazed for a moment or two in uncharacteristic silence.

“AHA! Feast your eyes on this, me maties! The world’s most precious and only clear ruby!”


“Yes, Eva, there are female pirates – or were.” One of the encyclopedias we consulted even included portraits of two of the most famous women pirates from the late 18th century. We were careful not to mention the reality of modern piracy in places like the Molucca Straits, nor to bring up the only slightly more figurative piracy that is contemporary monopoly capitalism.

The idea of a treasure hunt on the last afternoon of Eva’s latest sojourn in Plummer’s Hollow had come from my dad – her grandpa. Which is ironic, given his strongly pacifist views. They’d hung out together all morning, telling stories. “Geez, you were never this much fun when we were kids!” I said jokingly during lunch.

But the truth is that when my brothers and I were kids, living on an isolated, mountaintop farm, we had each other as playmates and fellow adventurers; Eva is an only child. Now, thinking it over, I’m forced to reevaluate my childhood memories a bit. However much each of us three brothers might choose to dwell on the times when we fought, when we dominated and made each other miserable for no good reason, the fact is that we were extraordinarily fortunate to have grown up the way we did, our imaginations virtually unimpacted by television, pop music, and all the other anodynes of post-industrial civilization whose side-effects seem to include a general stifling of the imagination and a fracturing of the attention span.

The most salient fact of my pre-pubescent history remains my unusual capacity for self-induced misery. I was a displeasure addict, throwing tantrums at the drop of a hat. Even so, I can easily recall dozens of memorable adventures that I had in the company of one or both of my siblings. There was the time we went looking for Middle Earth in the hollows beyond the Far Field, mysterious with fog. I got completely disoriented and frightened, and was forced like Rabbit in the House at Pooh Corner to humble myself before my little brother, who led us unerringly home. Then there was that time when my big brother led the way into a giant blackberry thicket – at a rabbit’s-eye level. The three of us spent a lovely couple of hours on our hands and knees, gingerly excavating a long tunnel, then hollowing out a sanctuary in the thicket’s impregnable heart. Talk about a pirate fort!

On rainy days, we set up makeshift tables in front of the doors to our rooms, set out all the toys, knick-knacks and gee-gaws we could afford to part with, and then took turns “shopping” at each other’s tables. No money was necessary; even questions of trade, fair or otherwise, didn’t intrude. These were, as we called them, “give-away sales.” And just as in the kula system of ceremonial exchange described by Bronislaw Malinowski in Argonauts of the Western Pacific, the same items circulated from owner to owner.

Raised by liberals who believed in treating their children as intellectual equals, the problems of the world were never far from our minds. Our parents didn’t try to shield us from the knowledge of such nightmare-inducing horrors as mass starvation, genocide and nuclear Armageddon. But we remained kids; such knowledge only challenged our imaginations to work harder. Now, from the perspective of a quarter century later, I am struck by the fact that the adult reality we lived under, the Cold War, has utterly vanished, while the worlds we conjured up in its stead have lost none of their power to enchant. The buried treasures and dragon hoards we sought then seem, in a strange way, realer than the stock-optional wealth of the dot-com boom or the ebb tide of investments that devastated the economies of Southeast Asia a few years back. My brothers and I each remain idealists, and on the rare occasions when the three of us get together, the B.S. sessions are a wonder to behold. We may disagree about the nature of the quarry now, but the rules of the game are still intact and the search is still on.

Both sides now

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

Away from home today. All I can come up with is a brief bit of moralizing poetry.

The view from
inside the glass
house distorts:
every darting
wren looks like
a stone. Only
the hummingbird seems
driven by harmless
desire. She
hovers, hangs
in place for
a long moment, bill
millimeters from
the pane, still –
apart from
the fury of
her wings. But
of all the ranked
blossoms, what
can she see?
At best, a faint wash
of exotic hues.
What’s drawn
her in is green,
hateful green –
guerrilla foe
who blocks her
every advance,
matches her
zig for
zag but will
not, will not

Education for healing

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

I recently finished the book I blogged about back on July 9, Boiling Energy: Community Healing Among the Kalahari Kung (Harvard U.P., 1982). The author, Richard Katz, is both an anthropologist and a psychologist, so he writes with unusual authority. He also did fieldwork in Fiji, and in contrasting the two very different societies – the formerly cannibalistic Fijians and the largely peaceful and egalitarian Kung – uncovered some lessons that he feels will be of use to community psychiatrists in the West.

Boiling Energy is a fascinating and clearly written book that anyone with an interest in healing, comparative religion or spirituality should find rewarding. My only wish is that Katz had written a bit more about the ideological foundation for Kung healing. What are the relationships between the tutelary spirits of the dances (giraffe, trees, kite, puff adder) and the various participants in those dances? Presumably, the author felt that since he could not say anything definitive, he’d be better off saying almost nothing. While this is laudable, I fear that he allowed an unconscious humanistic or anthropocentric bias to blind him to the central importance of non-human species, which clearly resemble humans in being simultaneously bodies and spirits (a distinction foreign to the Kung). Since many species regularly give up their bodies for food, might the Kung perceive the human-non human relationship as a template for the relationship between healer and community? After all, every time the healer enters into a healing trance, she or he is said to die and then experience rebirth – and this is meant quite literally, as we saw earlier.

Boiling Energy is a model of anthropological circumspection. Katz makes the provisional nature of some of his conclusions abundantly clear, and in describing the Kung he manages to avoid the twin pitfalls of idealization and subjection to alien worldviews and theories. Only in the last chapter, “‘Tell Our Story To Your People,'” does he venture to draw some tentative conclusions about the applicability of Kung healing methods and philosophies to Western cultural contexts. Since this is the part most likely to be of interest to a general audience, I thought I’d share a somewhat lengthy excerpt. Katz writes,

Several general principles characterize the education of Kung healers, one of which is the healer’s experiences of transformation. Becoming a healer depends on an initial transformation of consciousness, a new experience of reality in which the boundaries of the self become more permeable to an intensified contact with a transpersonal or spiritual realm. At this juncture, prospective healers experience a sense of connectedness which joins a transpersonal or spiritual healing power, themselves, and their community. But gaining access to the healing power is not enough; healers must then learn to apply that power to healing within the community. This application occurs as the experience of transformation is continually enacted and reaffirmed in the healers. This transformation both initiates the intensive phase of becoming a healer and characterizes the healer’s subsequent development.

In these transformations the emphasis is on the psychological process of transition rather than on the nature of barriers crossed or stages reached. Healers move continuously between their fear of transforming experience and their desire to heal others, their search for increased healing power and the difficulty of working with it. The emphasis on transition establishes flexible boundaries between career phases and psychological states. The healer’s career focuses upon one recurring developmental issue, which may or may not be resolved at increasing levels of difficulty, namely, to die to oneself to accept boiling num, or to transcend fear and pain, even of one’s death.

A second principle is that the experience of transformation, which makes healing possible, does not remove healers from the context of daily living not diminish their everyday responsibilities. Kung healers are as hard-working in ordinary subsistence activities as nonhealers, and they contribute fully to their communities. The service orientation of the healing work is a third principle. Although healers themselves must become engaged in a difficult educational process, they do so as their community’s emissary. The healers’ commitment is to channel healing to the community rather than to accumulate power for personal use. Healers struggle for a sense of connectedness joining self, community, and the spiritual domain, and their commitment to community service guides their healing practice and their lives.

A fourth principle is that transformation sets in motion an inner development which is not manifested or rewarded by changes in external [social] status. A fifth principle is the emphasis on heart as a critical context for healing and healing technology. It is qualities of heart, such as courage, that open the healers to the healing potential and keep them in the healing work. And a final principle is that the education of healers stresses the proper performance of the healing ritual rather than discrete outcomes. The cure of a patient assumes importance only in the larger context of the community’s healing ritual. Proper performance demands that the healer serve as the focal point of intensity, embodying dedication to healing and reaffirming the community’s self-healing capacity.

Reading this summary without reference to any concrete examples may leave quite a few readers more confused than enlightened – if so, I apologize. A closer examination of any one of these principles could yield a lengthy blog post in itself. Even as I input the quote, I thought of multiple connections I might draw to the subjects of previous Via Negativa posts: for example, to some of my disquisitions on the grotesque body or on the fraught terrain where healing magic meets the quest for personal power/knowledge. But this post is already long enough – and besides, I don’t know beans about psychiatry.

Katz’s findings about the Kung seem to resonate with the service ethic outlined by Rachel Naomi Remen in an essay reprinted by Sussura de Luz the other day: “We don’t serve with our strength, we serve with ourselves. We draw from all of our experiences. Our limitations serve, our wounds serve, even our darkness can serve. The wholeness in us serves the wholeness in others and the wholeness in life. The wholeness in you is the same as the wholeness in me. Service is a relationship between equals. . . . 0ur service serves us as well as others. That which uses us strengthens us. Over time, fixing and helping are draining, depleting. Over time we burn out. Service is renewing. When we serve, our work itself will sustain us.”

In the twilight of empire

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

This just in from Orion Online: a brief, lyrical appreciation of the contemporary USian landscape painter Linden Frederick by the author of The Geography of Nowhere.

Frederick’s method is to capture his subjects in crepuscular light. This allows a kind of natural editorial process in which the superfluous visual clutter recedes and the seemingly banal buildings can be viewed in full frontal nakedness, like old prostitutes in a dim room. Often a light is burning somewhere in or around the subject to remind us that inside dwells the remnant of a human spirit. Other times his subjects appear to be derelict or abandoned. The beauty of the evening skies Frederick depicts is in vivid contrast to the mood of ruin and anomie that pervade his scenes.

– James Howard Kunstler


holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

There is so little left that hasn’t been said . . .

Ah, but this is most untrue! What do you mean by said? Nothing, but nothing, can be repeated identically. . . .

[T]here is so little that has been said, such huge empty spaces where understandings and communications have never even been started. . . .

The Coffee Sutras

“Does it matter who says it?”

“No, so long as it is said right. The saying has its own existence: people knew this long before they tried to prove it with marks on clay and papyrus leaf and tortoise shell.”

“Yes, assuming it is uttered in full awareness. A true saying is unique and unrepeatable, however the words might choose to repeat themselves.”

“But given such ideal circumstances, again it shouldn’t matter who says something, because anyone can say anything – you never know. In other words, if the autonomy of the saying derives mainly from its originality, that fact takes precedence over the happenstance of its occurrence.”

“But it does matter, because in fact the saying lives only in the moment, indivisible from the vibration of the vocal chord, the exhalation of breath, the movement of hand and torso. This body, this breath. It’s sheer fantasy to locate its originality elsewhere.”

“Both these positions are in error. The saying lives in its situational and linguistic contexts, as one element in a communally created, autopoietic system of signs and signifiers.”

“But that’s a lot of fashionable-sounding nonsense. The empirical world does not and will never conform to theories, which seek nothing less than to overthrow the horizon, that unattainable or unknowable dimension in light of which all original sayings – and thus language itself – take wing.”

“Then at the heart of language we shouldn’t expect to find some ‘deep structure,’ but incommensurability: pure sound. Holy silence.”

“What about the saying? Are the words I say the same as the words you hear?”

“Perhaps we should think of words as analogous to germs – not just the bad ones, but the ones we need to fight those others off, or to digest food. They use us, we use them. They bind us together in many ways both wonderful and terrible. They cannot exist apart from us, and we would do poorly without their help.”

“What about this saying, this conversation?”

“Who cares! I am only interested in you. Whoever you are.”

“Then we must begin to assume responsibility for the words that come out of our mouths. You must care – one slip, one terrible sentence can destroy a relationship. Every true thing we say to each other is formed in light of that knowledge.”

“Then we have yet to exchange a single honest word.”

“We have been licentious. There was never a true assent, only lack of refusal. No?”

“No. I mean, yes. Well, maybe . . . ”

Back to the complexities

holloway overhung with ancient trees n Cornwall

This is my contribution for the Ecotone wiki topic RePlace.

A spot of poison ivy between the first and second knuckle of my left thumb has been lurking there since late May. I never knew exactly where or how I made contact with the plant, but by now, in mid-August, its berries must be ripening. In two weeks or less they will redden and the leaflets three will color up to match – signal flags for the small birds of passage who will drop from the sky each morning for a quick nosh. For them the first leaves turn: poison ivy and Virginia creeper along the woods’ edge, fox grape and dogwood and a hundred acres of tupelo, red-orange-yellow right underneath the canopy’s stalwart green. The migrants won’t have much time and the banquet is overwhelming, so the foliage has to shout: Get your high-fat berries here, at the drive-thru window!

But Jesus, these birds! Only a fool could dismiss them as ordinary because frequently seen. Steering at night by the stars, their vision by day encompassing ultraviolet light and polarization caused by the earth’s magnetic field, traveling thousands of miles through every kind of weather, year after year venturing everything to come and breed in woods like these, then leaving their nests and returning to the far more fecund South – the Indians were right about them. How could they not be messengers, couriers of the otherwise undeliverable hope to the otherwise unthinkable destination?

It is the time of year that approximates that late stage in an urban civilization when works of art and language start to give off a faint odor, bending under the weight of footnotes and allusions. Wasp nests bulge with larvae, Luftwaftes of termites take to the air. More moth species than lepidopterists have yet been able to catalogue, most of them naturally rare, seine the forest air for the exact scent of their shorter-than-a-needle mates in the landscape’s haystack. Overlooked for their apparent sameness by generations of collectors, agog at polyphemous, the leaf-winged luna, the riddle-winged sphinx.

The last of the huckleberries are ripening, and the first of the apples. The peaches are at their height. The air we breathe teems with more life than most of us would even want to imagine. The soil in the woods gives off an odor so much a part of the general gestalt that the overwhelming majority of humans heading out for a week or two of camping have no clear notion of what it is that draws them, year after year, to the same spot in some park or national forest, relinquishing the hard-won comforts of home for the pleasure of sleeping on the ground, their nostrils just a couple layers of fabric away from the sweetly rotting earth. The sternest teetotalers are led around by their noses. The juice in its stoneware pitcher grows mutinous with yeast.

Winter is as far behind us as it can get, now, and the growing chorus of northern true katydids each night reminds us – those whose grandparents grew up on farms, and were full of such sayings – six weeks till frost. We’re as far as we can get from February’s spare forms, blue shadows and that crystal-clear air that always leads my mind upward and away. One may or may not tire of August’s filigree and fandango, but for me the sense of mystery in this season is undeniably more profound. If in January I am a desert ascetic, in late summer I return to the full-course spread at the Life and Death Café. There’s nothing like it for ambience, for service, for live entertainment: a small combo with trumpet and upright bass, ride cymbals going lush . . . lush, the blues singer shouting sundown as if he meant it.

Waiter! I’ll have another bowl of the primordial soup!