I’ve been thinking a lot about my current situation in life. I’m back in Texas for good; or at least, as far as I know. I’m back in my parents’ house, not for good, most assuredly. I’m trying to find a job, which will then lead to my own apartment for the first time (since I’m determined to live alone for at least a little while), and I’m trying to find a way of getting around on my own without having to own a car.
This has naturally got me thinking about independence, in the financial sense of the word, but in other ways as well. Upon reading a prompt over at Pagan Prompts again, this sentence stuck out to me: “Is it important for you to take the journey alone?”
Independence is not only a virtue in today’s society: it’s necessary. Our whole economy is modeled around the satisfaction of the individual unit (person, family, business). America is founded upon the philosophy that the individual has inherent worth, regardless of where, when or in what circumstances he was born. Few other texts match the nearly religious transcendence in its commitment to independence than Emerson’s Self-Reliance and The Declaration of… well. You know.
I have thoughts about the individualism of today in an economic and secular, cultural context, but today I’d like to think a bit about what it means in a spiritual context.
One of the fascinating things to me about the filidh was their status. They chose which king’s court to attach themselves to, and were able to leave their patronage as they saw fit. The higher-ranking poets had their own retinue, including slaves and students. This may evidence that the poets were not the romantic, lonely creatures hiding in the forest, exceptions being the mad geilta, such as Suibhne, but the image of the poet walking alone on a high cliff, strumming a harp is still an arresting (if mostly fabricated by the druid revival of the 19th century) image.
And yet, both images, the one of the poet surrounded by students at court, and the poet alone under a tree, hint at something deeper. The filidh were a singular kind of “outsider” for their tribes, being mediums between the natural, sacred world and the world of the human tribe. Being of both worlds, they inhabited a third world: the world in between.
It’s no wonder there is such a strong interest in this third, mysterious image: the walker between the worlds. The role sounds powerful, and it is. Spiritual seekers today find power and resonance in that role, and can bring a lot of meaning to their own lives when they identify themselves as “one in between”; because our society today is so centered around independent units, there is really no place for people in between. There is an overwhelming sense of freedom, romantic nostalgia, and an incredible burden, which can quickly devolve into martyrdom, with the donning of this lonely role. We do not belong. We are doomed–tragically, gleefully–to be alone.
Admittedly, this mystique is a large part of the draw the filidh had upon me. The image of the Lonely Poet, and the character type of this Lonely Wanderer, is in fact one that goes back far beyond my initial interest in the Celts, way back into my elementary school years and the Kinds of Books I Read. The resonances of this archetype still inform much of my perception of my spiritual self today, even if I think I am growing past it somewhat.
But back to my original point: is it still important to me, even as my rosy glasses are lifting, to be alone in my journey? Am I meant to be alone?
Moreover, am I independent in my spiritual journey–can I rightfully say that I can make this spiritual journey alone?
To the first questions I can confidently answer yes. After all, heroes must always ultimately face alone what they seek to destroy/liberate/sacrifice/surrender to. The Buddha looked within himself, and it was only there that he found enlightenment. It may sound presumptuous to compare myself to heroes and Buddha, but I sincerely believe (in cynical moments and in optimistic ones) that I am meant to be alone, and ultimately, I am happiest being alone.
To second, I can confidently say no. Too many gods, too many people are with me to say that I have made this spiritual journey alone. I’m not even sure how I could be independent of them, unless this independence be a strange mix of symbiotic independence, in which each is the other, and yet is her own. One in Many, and Out of Many, One.
In the end, my desire to break free of my mundane dependent situation can be a companion to my desire to break free of my dependence on useless ideas, being spiritually lazy and unaware. Indeed, each can fuel the other, and maybe one day I can declare my own symbiotic independence, my own wild yawp.
Or, in my case, a small sigh of contentment.
