By Michael Murphy, Ed.D.
And giving the speech at a writer’s workshop to an awed audience after I publish the great book and let them know that in writing the great book like Hemingway I had my eight weeks of engaged aesthetic bliss as it poured forth onto to the page and so now I feel I can die complete. As they hasten to urge me not to deprive the world of my wonderful self, I tell them that when I was young, like them, I was afraid of death because I had not done anything, had not accomplished anything, had not contributed anything to the world. But even before I did the great book I knew I had contributed something, however scant or mixed, had played the game and walked a path and even then had not been cheated out of a life. But still there was something left to do. And then I would tell them of the dream I shared with my aunt Clare as she lay on her deathbed, nervous and depressed, about the dream I had after reading an article about the Mossad’s brave defense of Israel, their fearless insinuation into enemy groups and coalitions, and their quiet willingness to die for the great purpose. Then I went to sleep and dreamed that I was in the Mossad and in the course of noble battle had been mortally wounded and I saw myself lying on a bier suspended in space, floating there in the dim light of the stars. I knew that I had reached my end and words began to enter my remaining consciousness; the words were, “To love and to be loved is to be one.” In that moment I understood that to be perfectly loved is to be fully and completely known in the most immediate sense; there is no boundary between one and another. I understood that I was about to enter this undifferentiated domain of light, in which I would be immersed in unconscious bliss. I would love perfectly, and be loved perfectly, and I would be one.
But then…. Not so fast. The sense of something more emerged, something left undone, unresolved, perhaps unlearned – That feeling of hesitation, the inability to fully surrender at this particular moment; perhaps it is the book, that must be completed so the story can be told. I must complete myself enough so that I can have the 8 weeks of bliss and be done with it and enter the domain of god. After that, I guess, it’s truly gravy.
GRAVY
And giving the speech at a writer’s workshop to an awed audience after I publish the great book and let them know that in writing the great book like Hemingway I had my eight weeks of engaged aesthetic bliss as it poured forth onto to the page and so now I feel I can die complete. As they hasten to urge me not to deprive the world of my wonderful self, I tell them that when I was young, like them, I was afraid of death because I had not done anything, had not accomplished anything, had not contributed anything to the world. But even before I did the great book I knew I had contributed something, however scant or mixed, had played the game and walked a path and even then had not been cheated out of a life. But still there was something left to do. And then I would tell them of the dream I shared with my aunt Clare as she lay on her deathbed, nervous and depressed, about the dream I had after reading an article about the Mossad’s brave defense of Israel, their fearless insinuation into enemy groups and coalitions, and their quiet willingness to die for the great purpose. Then I went to sleep and dreamed that I was in the Mossad and in the course of noble battle had been mortally wounded and I saw myself lying on a bier suspended in space, floating there in the dim light of the stars. I knew that I had reached my end and words began to enter my remaining consciousness; the words were, “To love and to be loved is to be one.” In that moment I understood that to be perfectly loved is to be fully and completely known in the most immediate sense; there is no boundary between one and another. I understood that I was about to enter this undifferentiated domain of light, in which I would be immersed in unconscious bliss. I would love perfectly, and be loved perfectly, and I would be one.
But then…. Not so fast. The sense of something more emerged, something left undone, unresolved, perhaps unlearned – That feeling of hesitation, the inability to fully surrender at this particular moment; perhaps it is the book, that must be completed so the story can be told. I must complete myself enough so that I can have the 8 weeks of bliss and be done with it and enter the domain of god. After that, I guess, it’s truly gravy.