The perfect moment to meet you

«Our life is psychological,
and the purpose of life
is to truly embody that psyche,
to find the connections between life and soul».
J. Hillman (Revis., pag. 14)

I’m heading out, intending to take a walk in the woods today without a set destination. When I’m here in Lakazeza, weather permitting, a walk in the woods is a daily ritual. I anticipate it with the eager trembling of a child unwrapping a present. The metaphor fits perfectly because every day the path—often imaginary, as I love venturing off the beaten track and trusting my intuition while keeping my sense of direction sharp—gifts me the unexpected and unpredictable in the form of images, beauty, symbols, epiphanies, and transformed memories.
Sometimes a gnarled trunk allows me to access a part of myself that I’d been avoiding. Other times, a play of light through the branches suggests a completely new idea, an unforeseen or previously unthinkable surge of creativity.
And then there are the extraordinary encounters: the tree, the bush, the scent, the wild animal, or that particular rock whose spirit, whose invisible essence, greets me, opening up universes, evoking buried emotions, telling me forgotten fairy tales and archetypal dimensions, reminding me of myself and what I can be.
Never more than in these woods clinging to the sea, among these ancient stones, in the salt-laden air, through the luminous plains punctuated by wise olive trees… Never have I been able to so clearly contact the symbolic dimension of the images that nature constantly offers our gaze.

The Greek word “symbol” (simbolo) is composed of the prefix sým- (“together”) and the verb bállō (“to throw”): it therefore means to put together, to unite, to join, to harmonize. What, you ask? The experience of these “forest baths,” as they are now called, suggests that what is being connected, joined by the symbol like a bridge, are the two terms of experience: the signifier and the signified, the visible and the invisible, the image and the idea, the intuition or the memory, depending on the case. To say that everything is a symbol means that everything serves to reconnect us with a part of ourselves, that everything—therefore—is an opportunity for self-comprehension (etymologically, to “take with,” to “contain”).

Here, during my walks, it’s as if I’m swimming through the shimmering and evanescent reflections of something that isn’t elsewhere, separate: the invisible interpenetrates, imbues, and blends with everything my senses can embrace. And the sensation I derive is one of profound equilibrium, as if everything is finally in its rightful place, at the right time, effortlessly: the sensory experience and the “subtle” dimension, the manifest and the unmanifest, the image and the meaning, are—in the nature I experience and am a part of—harmoniously present, in continuous relation, a mutual and constant giving. Indeed, if there’s an “opposite” to the adjective “symbolic,” I believe it’s “diabolic” (from the Greek dia-bállō), which means to separate, to divide. Here in the woods, there is nothing diabolical; no opposition exists: visible and invisible, life and death, right and wrong, knowledge and ignorance, high and low are merely different gradations of whole, complex phenomena, like a fractal.

Entanglements

«Every disorder has its own mysterious, inner order. Perhaps it’s the mind’s rhythm, or that of memory. Maybe it’s the intention to be fleeting, or the aspiration for simplicity. In any case, it’s something elusive that doesn’t want to be reined in by a plan—like an animal or a forest tree, untamed, purposeless, in the sense that they don’t care to have an objective; they are simply alive, and that is enough. This disorder is simply being as you are, following an illogical thread of existing in the world.».
Chandra Livia Candiani

Then, a huge, dark tangle of wind-broken, fallen branches, held together by the tenacious coils of thorny sarsaparilla, captures my gaze for an instant as I walk briskly down a slope. I flinch slightly and turn back to immerse my gaze in it once more. As I do—a matter of seconds—I wonder why? Why did you see it? It’s not exactly the most Instagrammable image in the world (author’s note: a recently discovered word that I happily use as a reminder of how distorted the world we inhabit and contribute to creating has become). And it certainly doesn’t conform to classic aesthetic canons: it’s not “remarkable,” perfect, orderly, symmetrical, full, complete, luminous, magnificent… That’s it! I understand our encounter, the tangle and I.
Today, I set out for my walk with the sensation, immediately filed away, not to say dismissed, of being “in disarray.” I should fix my hair; it’s all knotted. And I should tidy up those accounting files. I could have folded the shirt draped over the chair. And above all, first and foremost, there are those thoughts you left open, undefined, unresolved, calling forth equally tangled underlying emotions: you should sit in meditation, pick up the threads, reorganize them, put things in their right drawers, find clarity and geometry.
Mind you, the process, the moment I set out, wasn’t so clear: the awareness, or the memory in a Gurdjieffian sense, was triggered by the image of the tangled branches. Or perhaps I was able to encounter the tangle because of my own sense of disorder? I reflect: the gaze—all five senses, in reality—is a mental operation: among infinite images available during a walk, it sifts through some, sometimes only a few to linger on, and in the very act of choosing them, it imbues them with meaning, imposing its own interpretive grid. Hence the importance of constantly cleansing our gaze, lightening it from all mental overwriting.

Anyway, standing there, I explore with my gaze all the shadowy winding paths of that heap of only seemingly dead vegetation. I follow the swirls of the climbing plants, allowing myself to be permeated by the sensation of roughness, thorniness, and complexity. I myself become the imprecise, the inexact, the illogical, the confused, the incoherent. And so, I encounter the emotion I had previously unconsciously judged, dismissing it with a laconic “I’ll sort it out.” It’s beautiful, poetic in its complex, zigzagging movement, and the more I immerse myself in it, almost wishing to amplify it, the more the discomfort, that subtle sense of imperfection to be remedied that previously inhabited me, transforms into a feeling of wonder, into a force that is finally free, harmonious, and therefore powerful. I dissolve into it, with the sensation of my identity traits unraveling. For an instant, Marta disappears, and there is pure energy, forest, sky, life. I set off again, after having given thanks, with a lighter, more playful, and freer step.

The Myth of Nature

«Spring’s blood,
anemone or cloud,
your light step
has violated the earth.».
Cesare Pavese

I find joy in the repeated bows the low branches ask of me. My inelegant gait, tripped by vines, the irregular strides to step over heather bushes, and a few slips on the scree amidst pine needles and tufts of thyme, all lend a playful dissonance to the whole, worthy of the finest Béla Bartók. Here it is, the transformed memory: the nightmare of the child pianist, reluctantly practicing the infamous Mikrokosmos, is now an enchanting soundscape for the woman skipping through the woods. I am not a story, imprisoned between a beginning and an end. Everything is contemporary, the same, condensed into an instant that vanishes the very next moment. A point, a moment of a fractal: the part is in the whole, and the whole in the part.
Descending and descending further, as if dancing this syncopated rhythm of memories and suspended possibilities, I find myself in one of my favorite “little plains,” looking up at the sky again.

The December climate is mild, and the vegetation responds with a burst of spring, more or less forced by climate change, which this year more than ever reveals evident consequences, blatant even to those who until yesterday considered it the biased narrative of a sparse group of extremists.

And the meadow is adorned with flowers: I recognize the mallow, and then I am enchanted observing the various shades of violet, fuchsia, blue, and bright red of a cluster of delicate anemones swaying in the wind. Again, I stop: a moment is needed to celebrate the beauty, I dare say the sacredness, of impermanence.
They are so beautiful, probably for just one day, and even if no one sees them. I breathe deeply into this last thought that feels like it shakes my very foundations.

In Greek myth, Anemone is a beautiful nymph in Flora’s court, madly loved by two winds: the graceful, springlike Zephyr and the biting, cold Boreas. The two vie for their beloved’s heart in a fierce competition that unleashes whirlwinds and storms, damaging the vegetation. Flora, partly concerned by the consequences of this lively rivalry, partly jealous of such ardent passion, transforms Anemone into a flower: Zephyr’s seductive spring breezes would make her bloom, and Boreas’s passionate cold caresses would make her wither prematurely. Anemone’s premature transience effectively resolves the dispute between the two lovers, with whom she can—finally—be eternally united.
Here is the metamorphosis, so dear to myth: transformation—which is never for better or worse in mythology—brings a new possibility into being. Here, in my opinion, it is about the power to recompose the scission, to resolve the opposition between two aspects, a conflict, through conscious immersion in the evanescent nature of all things. By ending, by consciously and continuously fading to ourselves, we heal the fracture: attachments, repulsion, fear, resistance… everything dissolves in the broad, soft embrace of eternal ending. Anemone is not the victim of a curse, as certain moralistic readings of the myth would suggest: her transformation is an act of love that manifests beauty, pacifies what is perturbed, and integrates opposites.
Around the anemone, there are other powerful myths, including one that sees it originating from Adonis’s blood or Venus’s tears for his death. But today, this narrative is evoked by the encounter: Anemos (from the Greek for wind, vital breath), the delicate wind flower that whispers to us of the beauty, the sacredness of impermanence.

A little moved, holding hands with the death that the anemone reminded me is present, a companion, a friend, I resume my pattering steps, feeling more spacious: thoughts, the sensations of walking, the colors of emotions emerge, play, mix as if driven by opposing winds, and then gently vanish without me getting caught in any of them. This vanishing seems like solid, reassuring ground on which to place one foot after another, at least until I fall asleep again, once more, in a pretense of objectivity, solidity, uniqueness.
Another opportunity for awakening.

I nourish myself with my perceptions and repeat, “This is what I am, this is what I am,” just as in the tradition of the Bardo Thödol, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Tantric yogins teach the dying. The withdrawal of projections.

Leopard Snake

«If God is an idea of man, and man is made in the image and likeness of God, then the image a man has of himself proceeds from the idea he has of God. Since each of our destinies strictly depends on the idea we have of ourselves, it follows that the idea we have of God is fundamental in determining our destiny.».
Selene Calloni Williams

As I continue on this wave of enthusiasm, I consider how my Shinrin Yoku journey—the forest bathing (recently completed under the guidance of Selene Calloni Williams, which led me to become a Forest Therapy Guide)—has enriched my way of being in nature, in relation to nature. And I smile, because on the other hand, I know this possibility came to me through mysterious channels, like a gift left on my doorstep by an unknown benefactor, simply by walking in these woods and immersing myself in the waters of this Greek sea. Those who know me are aware of how snobbish I can be towards certain mainstream spiritual practices. One of my countless flaws. But I truly want to remember this time: names are just names and serve to call; boxes are boxes and serve to contain. Along the way, I rediscovered so much of myself, of my childhood passions lost in the box of the repressed, and discovered new possibilities within myself (there must be a similar box, if not the same one).
The practices of walking meditation, the principles of Japanese Aesthetics, the imaginal thought of Hillman that I had already explored, Theravada Buddhism, the path of soul-making and deep ecology, following a non-anthropocentric paradigm. So much richness. But what matters most, more than what my mind has stored, is the space that has been generated; a new quality of attention and perception, dimensions of creativity and freedom previously unknown to me (even freedom from self-imposed rigidities and rules in facilitating awareness paths), a renewed enthusiasm.
I let myself swing on this feeling of freedom as if it were a tightrope over an abyss: the possibility of expressing myself in an original and authentic way, a step beyond what I might conceive as normal, adequate, or right based on the rules I’ve learned, even within paths of awareness… it always gives me a shiver. I don’t want to define it as fear, because it could also be joyful excitement.

And—I swear—upon this very thought, I see it, a meter and a half from the step I’m about to take. A rather long snake, stretched out across the entire path. I’m grateful to have been vigilant despite the flow of thoughts. I take another cautious step back and immerse myself in wonder: its body is spotted with red, tending towards orange. Its head is elegant, with a shape that seems exotic to me. It looks at me with its black, lively eye, and shows no sign of moving or reacting to my attempts to go around it. I later discover, by asking the resident biologist (you have no idea what a luxury it is to have such a precious and beloved human source of information on fauna and flora at close range. I restrain myself, because I adore the care and respect with which she conveys her knowledge and I don’t want to interview her every five minutes, but… I really have to restrain myself!), that it is not a venomous snake but a constrictor, which kills by squeezing its small prey. It commands my respect but also a certain sympathy, with its curious and sly demeanor. I feel watched, and it’s a very intense, overwhelming sensation: I wonder how it perceives me, what it feels about me, what image it has of my presence. For an instant, I remain suspended in the dynamic space of the relationship between me and the snake; for at least one breath, we exist only in this mutual perceiving, which brings us into being.

I decide not to be greedy and not to disturb it further, and I move to go around it, always maintaining a safe distance; and it’s at that point that it slightly raises its head, with an arrogant manner, a flash of its forked tongue, and then slowly, unperturbed, it glides away among the shrubs, freeing the path. The entire encounter perfectly matches the archetype of the serpent that dwells in my imagination.
Jo-ha-kyu! It’s the principle of the right rhythm and the right moment in Japanese Aesthetics. Everything in nature follows this principle. Plants go through long periods of dormancy, then, at the right moment, they begin to develop and grow rapidly. Flowers bloom at the right moment, animals emerge from their dens at the right moment (see the rant about cicadas). Knowing how to seize the right moment is a matter of instinct and awareness; the mind is not involved. It’s not about drawing lessons or finding morals. “This is the right moment for me to meet you,” I recite inwardly, feeling the profound truth of my statement. Being there, at that precise instant, to see the snake, is not coincidental. It’s the fruit of the rhythm that links all images in nature, including myself, because at this moment, I am nature.

I later discover that it was a Leopard Snake (Colubro leopardino), considered sacred in the time of Magna Graecia and revered in the sanctuaries dedicated to Asclepius, the god of medicine.
Here too, there are multiple versions of the myth. According to one of them, the demigod Asclepius received the gift from Athena to exchange his blood with that of Medusa the Gorgon (one of my favorite mythological characters, but I’ll tell that story in another account). From then on, the blood flowing from the veins of his left side became poisonous and brought misfortune, while that from his right side acquired the power to heal any illness, prolong life, and even raise the dead. This greatly distressed both Zeus and Hades, as the flow of the dead to the underworld decreased, and Asclepius’s miraculous gifts threatened men’s faith in the Olympian deities, who until then had been the sole dispensers of life and death, sickness and health. Divinity is an idea of man, and man is made in the image and likeness of God: when man reclaims powers that have been repressed and delegated to a distant and inaccessible elsewhere… his idea of God trembles! In short, the fact remains that Zeus decides to strike him down with a lightning bolt because… enough is enough. Apollo gets furious and kills three Cyclops responsible for producing Zeus’s thunderbolts. How I adore Greek myth! The reappropriation of a possibility corresponds to the honest representation of the obstacle, that internalized authority that fiercely and inexorably judges our “I cans.” Psychologically speaking, we might call it self-sabotage! But the impossible is always worth the effort. To appease Apollo, Zeus makes Asclepius immortal by turning him into a “minor god” (bringing him back to life was out of the question, given the circumstances), transforming him into the constellation of Ophiuchus.
And so, as a deity, Asclepius is very powerful (imagine, someone who cures diseases and raises the dead, far beyond gifts of wisdom, foresight, beauty, communication, and other nonsense): it was believed that merely sleeping in a sanctuary consecrated to him was enough to heal any illness. In every temple, there was at least one snake, which came from Asclepius’s sanctuary in Epidaurus: and not just any snake, but precisely a Leopard Snake!

Since ancient times, the snake has been considered a symbol of transformation and rebirth and has been associated with physical and spiritual well-being, integral knowledge, and enlightenment. The Rod of Asclepius, the symbol of modern medicine, and Hermes’s Caduceus, messenger of the gods, mediator between the human and the divine, feature one and two snakes respectively, coiled around a staff. A chthonic symbol, the snake is an archetype transversal to various historical, cultural, and religious contexts: from ancient Egypt to Greece, from India to Arab-Islamic traditions and the Old Testament. It is particularly used to represent Kundalini, a Sanskrit term originally used in certain texts of the Tantric traditions of Kashmiri Shaivism to denote that aspect of Shakti present in the human body, the divine energy believed to reside in a quiescent form in every individual. The name (“the coiled one,” etymologically) would thus derive from the state in which this energy normally exists; “dormant,” “inactive,” “slumbering,” “unconscious”: these are the terms generally found in literature to refer to Kundalini of which one has not yet become aware through one of the relevant yoga practices. The reference to the snake as a symbolic image of Kundalini well conveys the idea of something that is normally in a state of rest, coiled upon itself, as the snake often lies until it is stimulated or moves in search of food. This animal symbolizes a hidden, mysterious, and dangerous force. But, as often happens in myth, things considered dangerous, when understood and integrated, lose this attribute to reveal another complementary, beneficial one. When Kundalini rests, it is like a snake coiled upon itself, ready to strike and thus inject its venom; but when it is consciously awakened, under the careful guidance of a school and through constant practice, it brings about the awakening of the subtle senses and, rising along the spinal column (sushumna nadi) towards the crown of the head, leads the disciple to disidentification from the individual ego and to union with the universal Subject (Shiva: pure consciousness, truth, bliss). The topic would require far more than a few lines, I am aware…

But here, what mattered most was to share the marvelous complexity of an image, of an encounter, which through myth extends to cross epochs and worlds, to evoke a reservoir of supramental content, archetypes that we can all intuitively draw upon. I’ll let Elèmire Zolla express it better (from Archetypes): “The archetype is not a concept, but a plastic energy. […] Things are shadows of their names; names bind them to the archetype that informs them. […] Archetypes are thus unifying patterns charged with emotional and symbolic energy: significant meanings. Meditation is the process by which their archetypal meaning is extracted from things: a slow, thrilling, absorbed process…” […] “The extraction of archetypes demands that these presences emerge from a mental fog, presences that cannot be captured in the denotative field of words, but only in the aura, in the resonance of words. […] Archetypes are living, vivifying beings, more alive than the vivified humans. They belong to living life and not, like the latter, to lived life. Reason alone does not grasp them, because it only perceives meanings, not meaningfulness. […]”

Thus, to a gaze that immerses itself in the marvelous contemplation of nature, without any expectation of obtaining (not even utilitarian lessons or morals), a gaze that becomes pure perception, free from phobias, preferences, judgments… nature dispenses gifts with open hands. One simply needs to choose love instead of control (Ah! A child’s game!). Then one forgets their own story, their own identity traits—which separate us and make us inexorably “lacking”—to finally participate in the universal breath. To remember who we are. And then subject and object exist only in the relationship, which continuously brings them into being, renewed, distinct but not separate.

“I am in the world to be amazed!” a verse by Goethe recites. May wonder be the goal, may wonder be the path.