Bodygraphy Summary:
Where Does The Magic Happen?
July 25th 2015
Reading ‘The Spell of the Sensuous’, by David Abram, rekindled my longstanding interest in the concept of magic. Not the sleight-of-hand magic that illusionists, like Abram, perform on stage. Rather, a different kind of magic – a type with no tricks or illusions. It is one that is real and right in front of our eyes, and yet it is so often disregarded in our society. In this course I began to investigate this type of ‘magic’ that I speak of, by asking the question, “Where does the magic happen?” I treated this question as a koan: an illogical puzzle not to be solved through conscious analysis, but rather, to be explored through contemplative means. I contemplated on this koan daily, through seated meditation, forest walks, free writing, and music making – whatever arose in those moments was the answer. Some of those products are within this summary and some will be performed in my bodygraphy presentation.
In his book, Abram discovers what is “magical” is not so much a connection with the “supernatural” realm (Abram 1996, p.10). Instead, it is a re-examination of the natural world in such a way that we broaden our perspective to encompass multiple view points; in doing so we reach, a deeper knowing and understanding of the inherent intersubjectivity of this very material world we are ensconced in. This process of coming to understand the intersubjectivity of all things is, I believe, a realization of oneness. Coming into oneness with our natural, material environment – on a deep, visceral, emotional level – this is the magical process I am referring to. This is also the process, I believe, which Abram is alluding to when he recounts his experiences of studying with the Balinese Shamans, in Indonesia.
I felt that some of the epiphanies Abram captures in his book, mirror some of the realizations I have had throughout my life – albeit through very different circumstances and events. Ever since a young age, I have been on a quest, to explore what I interpret to be a ‘magical realm’ within my own existence. I have always been interested in mystical and mythical, and mysterious; however, only in recent years have I come to realize that the mystical, mythical, and mysterious are embedded in this natural world that exists right in front of us. In other words, we don't have to travel to a different realm in order to witness magic; we just have to broaden our perspective.
It was this course that re-instigated an asking of the question: “where does the magic happen?” I have defined this ‘magic’ that I speak of, as the magic of presence – or more specifically of being present with the natural world – although it would be hard to define it in words that are any less vague than that. It is expressed, however, in the moments when I’m fully awake and aware of my interconnectedness with all things. These are moments when I can step outside my individual perspective and enter this realm of “multiple subjectives” that phenomenalism speaks of, described by Abram as: “a collective landscape constituted by other experiencing subjects as well as oneself” (Abram 1996, p.37)
In my presentation I will explore moments throughout my life when I can remember this ‘magic’ – this deeper connection with the natural, material world (horizontal transcendence as I will refer to it) – entering, and also, exiting my being. I will read aloud my writings such as this journal entry below, which captures a moment during a forest walk/meditation where I felt I embodied a magical moment of presence; the kind that I have become so fascinated by.
July 3rd, 2015
Ferns cocoon me as I sit on a mossy log. Fuzzy leaves brushing bare arms. Sunlight streaks through a break in the trees; the leaves scatter and branches shake in the wind; sunbeams dance with shadows across the trunks of a silhouetted forest.
Cool evening; grey blue sky settling into dusk. Ferns bask in the remnants of the sun; the unpleasant pin prick of mosquitoes as they swarm in from the drought, feast on flesh of arm and ankle as belly rises, belly falls, watching the breath; restless, staggered, untrained for days. Ironing out the creases of the exhale as if it were an old pair of pants strewn with stubborn wrinkles.
Interrupted by repetitive stories of what my ego constitutes as ‘life’. And yet, reality is going right in front of my half opened eyes, but the mind unceasingly creates parallel embellishments fettered with fables of past and future. No purpose to them other than instilling fear. A fear that removes me from the magical realm of presence. For when I settle into this moment, here in the forest, there is visceral, tangible magic: juxtaposed against the gentle hum of the traffic through the tree line, are quiet whispers at work – soft stirrings of elemental negotiations as they discuss intersubjectivity.
As dusk fully envelopes me, the white light turns to golden yellow, to orange, and catches almost invisible whisps of spiders’ webs between thin branches. I have been here almost an hour now, but this is the first time I have seen them. They did not appear out of nowhere – they were here all along. But without being settled in this experience of “right now,” they might as well have not been there at all.
Works Cited
Abram, David. (1996). The Spell Of The Sensuous. New York: Vintage Books.
In his book, Abram discovers what is “magical” is not so much a connection with the “supernatural” realm (Abram 1996, p.10). Instead, it is a re-examination of the natural world in such a way that we broaden our perspective to encompass multiple view points; in doing so we reach, a deeper knowing and understanding of the inherent intersubjectivity of this very material world we are ensconced in. This process of coming to understand the intersubjectivity of all things is, I believe, a realization of oneness. Coming into oneness with our natural, material environment – on a deep, visceral, emotional level – this is the magical process I am referring to. This is also the process, I believe, which Abram is alluding to when he recounts his experiences of studying with the Balinese Shamans, in Indonesia.
I felt that some of the epiphanies Abram captures in his book, mirror some of the realizations I have had throughout my life – albeit through very different circumstances and events. Ever since a young age, I have been on a quest, to explore what I interpret to be a ‘magical realm’ within my own existence. I have always been interested in mystical and mythical, and mysterious; however, only in recent years have I come to realize that the mystical, mythical, and mysterious are embedded in this natural world that exists right in front of us. In other words, we don't have to travel to a different realm in order to witness magic; we just have to broaden our perspective.
It was this course that re-instigated an asking of the question: “where does the magic happen?” I have defined this ‘magic’ that I speak of, as the magic of presence – or more specifically of being present with the natural world – although it would be hard to define it in words that are any less vague than that. It is expressed, however, in the moments when I’m fully awake and aware of my interconnectedness with all things. These are moments when I can step outside my individual perspective and enter this realm of “multiple subjectives” that phenomenalism speaks of, described by Abram as: “a collective landscape constituted by other experiencing subjects as well as oneself” (Abram 1996, p.37)
In my presentation I will explore moments throughout my life when I can remember this ‘magic’ – this deeper connection with the natural, material world (horizontal transcendence as I will refer to it) – entering, and also, exiting my being. I will read aloud my writings such as this journal entry below, which captures a moment during a forest walk/meditation where I felt I embodied a magical moment of presence; the kind that I have become so fascinated by.
July 3rd, 2015
Ferns cocoon me as I sit on a mossy log. Fuzzy leaves brushing bare arms. Sunlight streaks through a break in the trees; the leaves scatter and branches shake in the wind; sunbeams dance with shadows across the trunks of a silhouetted forest.
Cool evening; grey blue sky settling into dusk. Ferns bask in the remnants of the sun; the unpleasant pin prick of mosquitoes as they swarm in from the drought, feast on flesh of arm and ankle as belly rises, belly falls, watching the breath; restless, staggered, untrained for days. Ironing out the creases of the exhale as if it were an old pair of pants strewn with stubborn wrinkles.
Interrupted by repetitive stories of what my ego constitutes as ‘life’. And yet, reality is going right in front of my half opened eyes, but the mind unceasingly creates parallel embellishments fettered with fables of past and future. No purpose to them other than instilling fear. A fear that removes me from the magical realm of presence. For when I settle into this moment, here in the forest, there is visceral, tangible magic: juxtaposed against the gentle hum of the traffic through the tree line, are quiet whispers at work – soft stirrings of elemental negotiations as they discuss intersubjectivity.
As dusk fully envelopes me, the white light turns to golden yellow, to orange, and catches almost invisible whisps of spiders’ webs between thin branches. I have been here almost an hour now, but this is the first time I have seen them. They did not appear out of nowhere – they were here all along. But without being settled in this experience of “right now,” they might as well have not been there at all.
Works Cited
Abram, David. (1996). The Spell Of The Sensuous. New York: Vintage Books.
Facilitated Practice:
Yoga & Essential Oils
Body Narrative:
1/2 here; 1/2 there - The Lagging Life of a Traveller's Child
June 25th 2015
Feet itchy: scratching them with a 7 x 4 x 7, before landing back yesterday, earlier than I began. Time travelling is taxing; always leaving something behind: accidentally took the key instead, reached into my pocket and felt crooked metal on my finger. The door is still open.
Travelling faster than the body, breaks off a souvenir – omiyage[1] as the Japanese would say – from the depths of my being. Once told by a teacher that the space we come into, is one we’ve come to heal. What space did I heal in Kyoto? Did I heal it with the piece I left behind? Will they post it back to me from that conservative post office in Kita-ku? Tried to send back the key at the bus station, but they wouldn’t take my letter. (kanji[2] written on the wrong side).
Told the Yoshimura family that I love them with my eyes. Eyes do so much in a culture of restricted words. Our culture allows everything, except intimacy with our eyes. Jetlag leaves them tired and dark rimmed; seeing double for days, after being thousands of feet high. Japan in my right eye, Canada in my left. If I cross them and look down my nose, Australia hovers between like a ghostly island that I was once stranded on. Mapping the horizon of past, present and future. Legs stretched across the pacific in a wide legged stance – padottanasana[3] perhaps – my toes dangling in Daitokuji[4]; they wiggle amongst the moss, and my sandal slaps cobblestone outside the chikurin[5]. The other foot moves through the grey-white sands of Jericho; a child screams in my ear, but I’m only half here, so I don’t hear.
Who am I? What is this?
A Zen koan[6] – given to me by a Buddhist teacher on the North Shore. Meant to be said on every inhale and exhale when in retreat. 2 years ago, I sat in Kameoka in a temple for 6 days, mimicking the posture of the Buddha on the hillside, as the train clicked on by. I was stiff, but embodied. But was I fully there?
Gone back to Japan every Summer since. There again this Summer, but only half so. Waiting for the remainder of my body to arrive off the plane, packaged in the fragile section, the mind sealed with duck tape; when it finally arrived, I had already taken off. Wandering the streets of Kiyamachi, drunk and disembodied, dancing to the twinkle of hostess bars. Peered into Milk Hall to see Mori Sensei by the window, chain-smoking and blue. Dai-chan, in a starched, white short sleeve eating and drinking away his over-time hours. Non-chan pours me an icy Ashai, the foam tickles my nose as I sip; trying to re-light the doused flame of old love with Miss half on her iPhone, half on her way home. “My room is too messy,” she said as she ran to her cab.
Vancouver Summer starting: days longer than nights, the light pink and blue at 10, with white streaks and high shrieks of gulls. Beaches busy with full bodies as they come out of holes like moles rising from hibernation. Emerging from stagnation I rise from the pond of a muddy mind, bounding around heart thumping, but who is in this frog body?
Who am I? What is this?
I ponder over evening tea, citrine and murky, catches the reflection of the roof and ripples when I stamp my feet, as the finches flutter in the foliage. Looking out beyond the backyard, at the overgrown tree where Summer sprouted and Spring blossoms split in two as they fell upwards in the breeze. What is the sound when a leaf hits the ground? Another koan, I think as I drink from my tiny cup adorned with kanji characters: “Strong/Heart” it says.
How strong it is, I do not yet know.
Commentary: This is a piece that I have polished from my early writing sketches done soon after my return from Japan earlier this month. I am always curious about the disembodied feeling that travelling and jetlag creates in me; it feels as if I am partly outside of my body for periods of up to a week, especially after a long plane flight. I wanted this poetic prose to capture the disorientation that can result from travel and rapidly switching from one culture to another – especially when they are as drastically different as Japan and Canada. Switching countries and adapting to new cultures is something that I have been familiar with all my life, having grown up overseas and then moving “home” numerous times. It’s exciting and addictive but at the same time it leaves a sense of feeling rootless and “floaty.” This poem is an investigation in what occurs in body and mind when I am feeling this floating sensation.
[1] Japanese word for souvenir
[2] Chinese characters used in Japanese
[3] Yoga pose
[4] Temple in Kyoto
[5] Japanese word for Bamboo Forest
[6] Paradoxical anecdote or riddle used in Zen Buddhist meditation
Travelling faster than the body, breaks off a souvenir – omiyage[1] as the Japanese would say – from the depths of my being. Once told by a teacher that the space we come into, is one we’ve come to heal. What space did I heal in Kyoto? Did I heal it with the piece I left behind? Will they post it back to me from that conservative post office in Kita-ku? Tried to send back the key at the bus station, but they wouldn’t take my letter. (kanji[2] written on the wrong side).
Told the Yoshimura family that I love them with my eyes. Eyes do so much in a culture of restricted words. Our culture allows everything, except intimacy with our eyes. Jetlag leaves them tired and dark rimmed; seeing double for days, after being thousands of feet high. Japan in my right eye, Canada in my left. If I cross them and look down my nose, Australia hovers between like a ghostly island that I was once stranded on. Mapping the horizon of past, present and future. Legs stretched across the pacific in a wide legged stance – padottanasana[3] perhaps – my toes dangling in Daitokuji[4]; they wiggle amongst the moss, and my sandal slaps cobblestone outside the chikurin[5]. The other foot moves through the grey-white sands of Jericho; a child screams in my ear, but I’m only half here, so I don’t hear.
Who am I? What is this?
A Zen koan[6] – given to me by a Buddhist teacher on the North Shore. Meant to be said on every inhale and exhale when in retreat. 2 years ago, I sat in Kameoka in a temple for 6 days, mimicking the posture of the Buddha on the hillside, as the train clicked on by. I was stiff, but embodied. But was I fully there?
Gone back to Japan every Summer since. There again this Summer, but only half so. Waiting for the remainder of my body to arrive off the plane, packaged in the fragile section, the mind sealed with duck tape; when it finally arrived, I had already taken off. Wandering the streets of Kiyamachi, drunk and disembodied, dancing to the twinkle of hostess bars. Peered into Milk Hall to see Mori Sensei by the window, chain-smoking and blue. Dai-chan, in a starched, white short sleeve eating and drinking away his over-time hours. Non-chan pours me an icy Ashai, the foam tickles my nose as I sip; trying to re-light the doused flame of old love with Miss half on her iPhone, half on her way home. “My room is too messy,” she said as she ran to her cab.
Vancouver Summer starting: days longer than nights, the light pink and blue at 10, with white streaks and high shrieks of gulls. Beaches busy with full bodies as they come out of holes like moles rising from hibernation. Emerging from stagnation I rise from the pond of a muddy mind, bounding around heart thumping, but who is in this frog body?
Who am I? What is this?
I ponder over evening tea, citrine and murky, catches the reflection of the roof and ripples when I stamp my feet, as the finches flutter in the foliage. Looking out beyond the backyard, at the overgrown tree where Summer sprouted and Spring blossoms split in two as they fell upwards in the breeze. What is the sound when a leaf hits the ground? Another koan, I think as I drink from my tiny cup adorned with kanji characters: “Strong/Heart” it says.
How strong it is, I do not yet know.
Commentary: This is a piece that I have polished from my early writing sketches done soon after my return from Japan earlier this month. I am always curious about the disembodied feeling that travelling and jetlag creates in me; it feels as if I am partly outside of my body for periods of up to a week, especially after a long plane flight. I wanted this poetic prose to capture the disorientation that can result from travel and rapidly switching from one culture to another – especially when they are as drastically different as Japan and Canada. Switching countries and adapting to new cultures is something that I have been familiar with all my life, having grown up overseas and then moving “home” numerous times. It’s exciting and addictive but at the same time it leaves a sense of feeling rootless and “floaty.” This poem is an investigation in what occurs in body and mind when I am feeling this floating sensation.
[1] Japanese word for souvenir
[2] Chinese characters used in Japanese
[3] Yoga pose
[4] Temple in Kyoto
[5] Japanese word for Bamboo Forest
[6] Paradoxical anecdote or riddle used in Zen Buddhist meditation