“Well, you brought some magic into that little life,” said Albert, as the next child was hurried away.
It’s the expression on their little faces I like, said [Death].
“You mean sort of fear and awe and not knowing whether to laugh or cry or wet their pants?”
Yes. Now that is what I call belief.

Indeed!

The etymology of “redemption”

I can’t help but look at a word’s older meanings when trying to understand the concept it represents. Without cultural (i.e. sociohistorical) context, any word is flat and drab. In this particular case, I’m tempted to think of coupons, rather than souls or minds, if I don’t bother to think etymologically. Picking apart the Latin construction, we get two basic parts:

1. re(d)-, an extremely common Latin prefix meaning essentially “again” or “back to the original place”
2. emere, a Latin verb meaning “to buy,” itself consisting of the prefix e(x)-, meaning “out of,” and merere, “to deserve” (cf. English “merit”).¹ Together, then, as emere, it means “that which is earned.”

It seems, then, that redemption is a later purchase, the delayed derivation of value. And this makes a hell of a lot of sense.²

The philosophy of “redemption”

My latest realization in this line of thought, by which I mean the understanding of suffering, is that I’ve been searching for a Grand Unified Theory of Belief. Much like how comparative mythology fascinates me by pointing out isomorphisms in folklore across significant cultural boundaries, theology is interesting to me only in the singleness of its various forms. It sounds obtuse, irreverent far beyond the point of atheism, to say of the multiplicity of religious belief in the world, “It’s all the same.” But often, that’s precisely how I feel.

One of the most important themes in understanding redemption, in my mind, is that of return. There is progress, yes—much like the “If you can get through it. If you can endure it all the way” philosophy³—a progress that implies deviation and therefore growth. But more important than that, there is an eventual homecoming, a point at which the wayfarer returns to the point of departure, and discovers in the process that home is everywhere. (At the risk of sounding didactic, please remember that Daoism’s 道 means “way” or “path”.)

Circles, arcs, bends, and loops

It seems to me that this discussion of redemption, while certainly encompassing broad swaths of philosophy and theology, is mostly a messy stew of linguistics and numerology, of geometry and divination. This is unfortunate in terms of ease of understanding, but fortunate in terms of fun.

All the curvatures listed above (viz. circles, arcs, bends, and loops) can be understood in different ways, specifically as referring to space (e.g. arc) or time (e.g. loop). This is an expected byproduct of the spatiotemporalization so common in Western cultures, and consequently seen throughout the English language. For the sake of clarity, I’ll define each curvature according to its use in the present argument.⁴

1. circle: A process or concept exhibiting unity, whether spatial or temporal, in form or function
2. arc: Progress whose path indicates transverse velocity (i.e. the presence of any vector both nonidentical to, and acting upon, the initial trajectory)
3. bend: Permutation to an otherwise straight trajectory which introduces curvature, thereby increasing the distance traveled (i.e. path) in a discrete but nonlinear fashion
4. loop: A reiterating process exhibiting a constant semantic structure which varies only in its temporal displacement

The confluence of these shapes and concepts forms the path to redemption.

The circle, as an entity both spatial and temporal, is the recognition of the illusion of difference. The presence of infinity in the recursive symmetry of the circle is a mark of divinity. The absolute oneness of the circle approaches nonness, yet cannot reach it in its silence.

The arc is often the straightest path possible. It represents the presence of plural forces in the structuring of the path, the eternal inertia of past direction, even after the future path has been chosen. A well crafted arc is beautiful and efficient, a joyous yet purposed teleological ride.

The bend is a change in the path. It can turn a line into an arc, or a circle into an ellipse. It is the purposeful modification of real elements in order to arrive at a finite future. Over time, a bend can be thought of as periodicity or oscillation in a waveform.

The loop is a careful reconsideration of an attempt, amounting essentially to “How about now?” The attempt must work at some point. Given the constant restructuring of the path, the loop constitutes stored memory. It can reattach to the past, and thereby affect the future.

Spirals, helices, vortices, and circles

Now, further spatialization of the already temporal concepts discussed here yields new concepts ripe for our understanding. If 道 is to be understood as a 1-dimensional component to redemption, i.e. the path (or line), then the previous section detailed the 2-dimensional constructs of the system. This section deals with the 3-dimensional concepts of redemption.

Of course, 道 differs substantially from a mere 1-dimensional line; its quality of a path mandates consideration in terms of at least two dimensions, to include time with direction, resulting in progress and perspective. And certainly at least “loop” from the 2-dimensional category above demands time, and therefore that list can be understood as consisting of 3-dimensional objects. By the same logic, the concepts discussed in this section could be seen as either 3- or 4-dimensional paths. (This will be the last time this dimensional transformation is carried out.)

Enter the definitions.

1. spiral: Curve  originating at a central point, around which it revolves and from which it grows progressively more distant; notably passes through same radii again and again, but at different and discrete points each time
2. helix: A 3-dimensional curve congruent with a corresponding circle on two axes; essentially a circle with an “activated” third (z-) axis
3. vortex: A 3-dimensional curve congruent with a corresponding spiral on two axes; essentially a spiral with an “activated” third (z-) axis
4. circle: A 3-dimensional progression functionally constant on two axes; the most constant of all shapes and thoughts, even more so than a line, given that the circle revisits space in displaced time

And the expanded discussion.

The spiral remembers but diverges. Its progress in difference is fueled by fear of the past, by the yearning to change. In its excellence in a single plane, it is blind to, and therefore bound by, infinitely more.

The helix remembers and honors. Even in its adherence to tradition, however, it cannot help but evolve: it continually remakes itself in its own image, or in the image of the thought which preceded it. Nevertheless, it excels in only a single dimension, and remains bound in two.

The vortex, for all its striving, is trapped in its aspiration. It is defined by the nature of the progress it once made, and perpetuates the sins of its father, which it long ago became.

The circle in three dimensions contains the potential to rewrite itself.⁵ It exhibits loyalty and purpose, fidelity to the ineffable cause of self without context: Monism.⁶

The spiral remembers and wanders. Wandering can be ordered.

The helix remembers honor. It is resolute, like a crystal lattice. Its strength and eternity allows for change outside itself: within.

The vortex cannot consume its origin.

Shapes, lines, times, and rhymes. The indivisible is invisible. The effort serves; having made it through, we are both younger and older.

We cannot go back. Nevertheless, we must try.

1. See entry for “exempt” at EtymOnline.
2. Interestingly enough, Exodus 21:8 uses the word to refer to the buying back of slaves!
3. See the previous post, an excerpt from Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed.
4. There is nothing remotely mathematical about these definitions. They were made up and hammered into shape specifically for the sake of this discussion. As such, they might differ considerably from their more traditional forms.
5. Cf. death code, Oroborus.
6. Cf. Einheit, zⁿ = 1, ت(وحيد), 一神教.

The backstory for this excerpt is that a Marxist revolution (called in this book an “Odonian” revolution) led to the forced exile of the revolutionaries by the dominant political forces of the planet. After the establishment of the colony on the moon, all contact with the planet was severed, and no communication passed between the two civilizations for over a hundred years. In this excerpt, the protagonist Shevek discusses how good can come of their suffering in exile.

(Please note that the typo “principal” for “principle” is not an error in my transcription, but rather preserved from my edition of the book.)

“Suffering is a misunderstanding,” Shevek said, leaning forward, his eyes wide and light. He was still lanky, with big hands, protruding ears, and angular joints, but in the perfect health and strength of early manhood he was very beautiful. His dun-colored hair, like the others’, was fine and straight, worn at its full length and kept off the forehead with a band. Only one of them wore her hair differently, a girl with high cheekbones and a flat nose; she had cut her dark hair to a shiny cap all round. She was watching Shevek with a steady, serious gaze. Her lips were greasy from eating fried cakes, and there was a crumb on her chin.

“It exists,” Shevek said, spreading out his hands. “It’s real. I can call it a misunderstanding, but I can’t pretend that it doesn’t exist, or will ever cease to exist. Suffering is the condition on which we live. And when it comes, you know it. You know it as the truth. Of course it’s right to cure diseases, to prevent hunger and injustice, as the social organism does. But no society can change the nature of existence. We can’t prevent suffering. This pain and that pain, yes, but not Pain. A society can only relieve social suffering, unnecessary suffering. The rest remains. The root, the reality. All of us here are going to know grief; if we live fifty years, we’ll have known pain for fifty years. And in the end we’ll die. That’s the condition we’re born on. I’m afraid of life! There are times I—I am very frightened. Any happiness seems trivial. And yet, I wonder if it isn’t all a misunderstanding—this grasping after happiness, this fear of pain. . . . If instead of fearing it and running from it, one could. . . get through it, go beyond it. There is something beyond it. It’s the self that suffers, and there’s a place where the self—ceases. I don’t know how to say it. But I believe that the reality—the truth that I recognize in suffering as I don’t in comfort and happiness—that the reality of pain is not pain. If you can get through it. If you can endure it all the way.”

“The reality of our life is in love, in solidarity,” said a tall, soft-eyed girl. “Love is the true condition of human life.”

Bedap shook his head. “No. Shev’s right,” he said. “Love’s just one of the ways through, and it can go wrong, and miss. Pain never misses. But therefore we don’t have much choice about enduring it! We will, whether we want to or not.”

The girl with short hair shook her head vehemently. “But we won’t! One in a hundred, one in a thousand, goes all the way, all the way through. The rest of us keep pretending we’re happy, or else just go numb. We suffer, but not enough. And so we suffer for nothing.”

“What are we supposed to do,” said Tirin, “go hit our heads with hammers for an hour every day to make sure we suffer enough?”

“You’re making a cult of pain,” another said. “An Odonian’s goal is positive, not negative. Suffering is dysfunctional, except as a bodily warning against danger. Psychologically and socially it’s merely destructive.”

“What motivated Odo but an exceptional sensitivity to suffering—her own and others’?” Bedap retorted.

“But the whole principal of mutual aid is designed to prevent suffering!”

Shevek was sitting on the table, his long legs dangling, his face intense and quiet. “Have you ever seen anybody die?” he asked the others. Most of them had, in a domicile or on volunteer duty. All but one had helped at one time or another to bury the dead.

“There was a man when I was in camp in Southeast. It was the first time I saw anything like this. There was some defect in the aircar engine, it crashed lifting off and caught fire. They got him out burned all over. He lived about two hours. He couldn’t have been saved; there was no reason for him to live that long, no justification for those two hours. We were waiting for them to fly in anesthetics from the coast. I stayed with him along with a couple of girls. We’d been there loading the plane. There wasn’t a doctor. You couldn’t do anything for him, except just stay there, be with him. He was in shock but mostly conscious. He was in terrible pain, mostly from his hands. I don’t think he knew the rest of his body was all charred, he felt it mostly in his hands. You couldn’t touch him to comfort him, the skin and flesh would come away at your touch, and he’d scream. You couldn’t do anything for him. There was no aid to give. Maybe he knew we were there, I don’t know. It didn’t do him any good. You couldn’t do anything for him. Then I saw . . . you see . . . I saw that you can’t do anything for anybody. We can’t save each other. Or ourselves.”

“What have you left, then? Isolation and despair! You’re denying brotherhood, Shevek!” the tall girl cried.

“No—no, I’m not. I’m trying to say what I think brotherhood really is. It begins—it begins in shared pain.”

“Then where does it end?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know yet.”

It’s difficult to begin talking about what this passage means to me. I believe this is enough for now.

In the time leading up to my recent graduation, I’ve been doing landscaping work on weekends in order to pay the bills. I took a few weekends off to graduate, but I’ll be picking it back up this weekend to keep myself afloat economically, until something bigger and better comes along.

There is something unreal about this type of work. Work of the hands. Moving earth. Touching all different types of life and telling them where to go, where they can best be provided for. Although all of this stuff is unquestionably grounded in the real, it goes—for me—beyond the physical form and instills meaning. There is a reason that the gardener is, as a character, a literary device unto itself, and I’m just beginning to understand that.

A few weeks ago, while working in a housing development, mulching beds, an old man came outside to make some special requests. I obliged, and he came out again and tipped me $20. Later, he yet again came outside, and sat down to watch our crew working. He asked me how long I’ve been doing this type of work. I said, oh, I don’t know, that it’s seasonal work and altogether maybe ten years, just over the summers.

He told me a story about how, when he was “my age,” whatever he took that to be, he had a job working a combine harvester. Made a dollar an hour, I’m pretty sure he claimed. He loved that job. But eventually he found a better job in a glass factory, making three times the money, with benefits, too. He took it without hesitation. He worked the new job for three days, then quit and went back to manning the combine.

“So, I understand why you do the work you do.”

He seemed to think there was great wisdom in there somewhere.

I don’t yet pretend to appreciate the depth of what that man was trying to communicate to me, but flavor of the message is still with me. It’s as though I entered the room during the dying fall, and while I don’t have a prayer of knowing on what chord the piece ended, the overtones haunt me. In the old man’s words I heard the memory of still older words:

My words have ancient beginnings.

This was translated from 言有宗, literally “words have ancestors.” I’ve found myself over the past year or two becoming so open-minded and philosophically promiscuous that I think I’ve crossed back over into conservative territory. I seem to believe that at some remote point in history or prehistory, some person, whether mystic or shaman or prophet or scholar, did indeed figure out the nature of reality, or at least came damn close. The odds that I’ll encounter such an individual in my lifetime, face-to-face, are rather slim, though, so I’ve turned to exegesis.

And landscaping.

In spe (και ημέρες)

The title of this post comes from a short essay by Denise Levertov, in which she discusses the process of nurturing belief through the carrying out of good deeds. At least, that’s what I think it’s about—I only read the first page of it. It was enough to inspire me. I suppose you could say I believed it.

What speaks to me about this philosophy is that I genuinely believe that certain types of work will sustain and satisfy, and others will not. Others can even lead one far astray.

Where I’m at right now is the first time I’ve ever really had to decide how I can best interface with the world. Is it wrong that I don’t really care whether Verizon uses Twitter to provide better customer service? Is it illogical that I’d sooner work for a major marketing firm than canvass for Greenpeace? I have substantial misgivings about even the Peace Corps.

It seems the only option left open to me is graduate study. I want to be a professor. To put it quite simply, I can’t imagine any other job allowing me to keep up the ritual of reading and writing I’ve envisioned for myself as necessary for cultivating a healthy soul. So I’ll spend the next year or so piecing together journal articles with the sundry professors who will hire me a month at a time to edit their work.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get my hands dirty one of these days.

So I decided to find out.

On Wednesday evening, shortly before 8pm, there was a meeting scheduled to discuss William Q. Judge’s The Ocean of Theosophy. Naturally I knew nothing of this work and intended to do no research beforehand, so as not to ruin whatever surprise awaited me. Surprised I was, and surprisingly frustrated that I hadn’t taken the time to find the book and read it before attending the meeting.

Here’s an excerpt from the portion of the text under discussion at the meeting I attended.

This is the state of Devachan, a Sanskrit word meaning literally “the place of the gods,” where the soul enjoys felicity; but as the gods have no such bodies as ours, the Self in devachan is devoid of a mortal body. In the ancient books it is said that this state lasts “for years of infinite number,” or “for a period proportionate to the merit of the being”; and when the mental forces peculiar to the state are exhausted, “the being is drawn down again to be reborn in the world of mortals.” Devachan is therefore an interlude between births in the world.

So that’s the kind of stuff we’re dealing with here.

My initial take on the philosophical outlook expounded by the text—and consequently, by theosophy in general—was that it was a snobbish mishmash of cultures foreign to the white man, ostentatiously veiled in the raiment of calculated sophistication. One of those books that seeks to make the reader feel utterly gauche. Almost as unbearable as the Generation Xers pruning their bonsai trees.

But this soon changed. Those in attendance were oftentimes quite critical of the material, and asked questions whose profundity made the excerpt above look like Simple English Wikipedia. There was a wonderful unspoken linguistic practice of forbidding the word “I”; attendees and chairperson alike would always use the first person plural, e.g. “Actually, the question we asked was…” or “As we understand it, it seems that….”

The meeting was such an intense rush of intellectual nourishment that I didn’t say a word the whole way through. I was at times struggling to follow the discussion of the room, so lost was I in weird cerebral meanderings certain comments had led me to.

I was recently asked about my personal religious beliefs, about my spirituality, if any. I said that I’ve taken to explaining the matter so: “I believe equally in the truth of all religions, up to and including the point at which each might exclude others.” To some people, it’s a cop-out answer. To others, it’s honest and maybe even deep.

The declaration of the United Lodge of Theosophists closes with a similar sentiment, known as the Eclectic Maxim of H. P. Blavatsky:

The true Theosophist belongs to no cult or sect, yet belongs to each and all.

Now that’s something I can believe in.