Furr Lake

 

I am concerned about the world as a whole. In fact, it would actually be the human race I worry most about. We’ve mistakenly concluded that mankind is a superior animal. We are most definitely not. While bees go on building their utopian hives, humans fuss and fight for unnecessary caches of more-than-enough. As far as I can tell, it is already too late for us to recognize the problem with this picture. I myself live in a house that suits my needs four times over. The two people who live here have four automobiles to our name. There are four queen-sized beds here, and each bedroom is equipped with its own en suite.

Yes, we are humans and we have somehow fallen into the trap of extravagance. Like a couple of beavers who would back up the town’s river in order to have the most superior pond in which to swim, I am afraid we have all chosen to go too far. This is the human condition.

At some point, one’s web becomes another’s nuisance. Like the invasive Joro Spider, we’ve found new worlds to invade and the unsuspecting societies that once thrived in those parts never had a prayer. The word Joro actually comes from Japanese folklore creature Jorōgumo, which translates to “entangling bride”. There are countless myths and stories which use as many variations of the tale of the Jorōgumo. In many of the older stories, the spider can appear as a beautiful, young woman and the giant web she secretly builds can ensnare unsuspecting, young men and pull them into a violent waterfall, where the men drown and become food for her spider-family. Only when a young man is clever enough to trick the spider, by pulling off the web and wrapping it around a tree stump, might he survive. However, in this case, the spider naturally becomes angry when she learns how she has been outsmarted and from then on, she preys on woodcutters.

My point might be simply put as, “enough is enough.”

Henry David Thoreau preached simplicity and most people ignored him. That ripe and delicious fruit tempts everyone and we cannot seem to resist it; even when we know we will be thrown out of the utopia planned for us.

The stories, the myths, the sermons and the poems have not done what they’ve all set out to do. We found that a small web is good for procuring what we need, and it seems to have occurred to everyone that a larger web yields even more.

There is an ancient myth that spins the same warning in a different way. It follows a lost tribe, wandering in the wilderness and trying to reestablish their place in the world. They are led by a man who claims he gets his directions from God. When the group gets hungry, they complain to this leader and he wanders off to talk to God. God promises there will be bread from the sky, but he tells the great leader that he needs to let the people know that they can only gather what they need; with the only exception being when they gather for someone else who is unable to gather, for whatever reason.

The leader goes back and tells his followers what God said. The next morning, the bread is on the ground. The people go out and collectively ask, “What is this?”

No one ever really gave it a name, so it was – and still is – referred to as “What Is This?”.

From the very beginning, people have always tried to gather more than they need. The result is always the same; it spoils.

Strong leaders, good preachers, storytellers and artists, always try to remind us that whatever it is, you should only gather what you need for today, but few listen.

One great teacher, who knew the story, said that we should pray, “Give us THIS DAY, our DAILY BREAD.” But we tend to say this prayer while we go out in search of many days’ worth of whatever it is.

No Joro Spider is never going to build a good-enough-web. They are called invasive for a reason. And even when I find myself pulling the sticky, oversized web from out of my hair, it rarely occurs to me that I have also built such a web.

While I have the utmost respect for my country and the freedoms we enjoy, I still wonder if we have been mindful enough of all we unwittingly ensnare. Could Lady Liberty be the beautiful, entangling bride? I preach to myself. I find that I am a rich, young ruler in my own right. I refuse to part with what I do not need, out of fear that I might need it later. Like most everyone, I somehow believe my jars of excess won’t spoil.

When I read philosophies developed within various belief systems, I find myself looking for clues on how to manifest more with proper thinking. I confess that I spend very little time acknowledging how comfortable I am, while I imagine how comfortable I might be with more comforts. It is as maddening as Tolkien’s fictional ring: “My precious!”

No matter how many stories we learn by heart, it is the stories in our heads that seem to drive us. On that note, Neville Goddard tried to tell us that this is why the crucifixion occurs at “the place of the skull” or “Golgotha” or “Calvary”. This is probably the hardest philosophy anyone could teach. What Goddard attempted to teach was that this story is another metaphor about what must happen within each one of us if we want to discover the resurrection for ourselves. This is extremely hard to follow, but it is a death, which occurs with regards to this head-driven-pursuit. This is why it happens at Golgotha; it is that which we think we desire that always ensnares us. Killing fantasies of abundance is to hang our natural instincts on a cross; and we do suffer for it.

Golgotha is our persistent thoughts. Christ Consciousness is when our imagination produces qualia, and qualia leads to the development of the feeling we desire. There is a very important distinction between what we think we want and the feeling we imagine having it might yield. And this is what I would call, The Hard Problem of Manifesting. To focus on what you think might do it, is to most likely create the obstacle in the way of what would do it.

This is actually critical and it is why Goddard said, “Think from the end.”

I am saying this as well. Put simply, I would say, “Forget what you want, and focus on what you want to feel.”

As a thought experiment, allow any desire to come to mind and dwell on it for a moment. While you are thinking about this one specific desire, see if you can discover how you think it might feel to have this specific desire fulfilled. If possible, put that feeling into your imagination until you begin to “feel” that state of satisfaction; but at the same time, try to put away the conditions you thought must be present in order for you to feel what you feel.

It may be good to say to yourself, “No you don’t.”

If you think, “I want a billion dollars.” Put that to rest with, “No you don't.”

Why? Because what you actually desire is to feel the way you think it would feel to have a billion dollars.

What we fail to remember is that we could feel that way with no money at all.

I have had many myths play out right before my eyes. Let me tell you about The Myth of the Furr Lake Fishermen.

Long ago, in the unincorporated land, between Austell and Powder Springs, I watched a scene with much amusement and delight, as it unfolded in the large pane of glass between the inner walls of my dark office and the bright, Saturday morning light outside. A rusty, old station-wagon pulled up into Mrs. Furr’s driveway and an elderly man got out of the driver’s side and went up the steps and knocked on Mrs. Furr’s door. Mrs. Furr and her visitor laughed and talked a few minutes and she gave him something wrapped in what appeared to be wax paper. If I had to guess, I would say it was about half of a cake.

When he returned to his car, he did not back out onto Old Westside Road as I thought he would. He drove on around the house and into the field behind it. There, he parked beside the small lake that had belonged to the Furrs for as long as I could remember. The wagon, still bouncing from a want of shocks, and puffing one last breath of smoke, came to rest with all four doors opening, as if choreographed to swing in synchrony. Five men, of various ages and sizes, poured out and went to the back where the driver opened the tailgate. There, they retrieved chairs, coolers, tackle, rods and reels. They set up beside the lake, close enough to carry on conversations, and that they did. I could not hear what they were talking about, but I could hear the occasional choruses of laughter. Just as my eyes began to glaze, and before I could follow my most natural instincts to join the jolly crew, a wealthy businessman walked in and caught me gazing. “Would you just look at that?” He said, knowing full well I was, “They do that almost every Saturday. They drive up in that hundred-dollar-wagon and sit out there and fish. They could have a nice car if they’d just work on Saturday like we do.”

“Right.” Was all I could think to say. I suppose I was agreeing to some kind of logic he must have wanted to convey, but in my mind, I truly wanted to be doing what they were doing instead of working that day.

Today, nearly four decades later, I cannot count the Saturdays I have worked, nor the missed opportunities to ride with four friends, in a rusty wagon, to Mrs. Furr’s lake.

I have been paid well for the Saturdays I have worked. But I have sacrificed far too many moments like that. It is because of stories like this that I now know what I do want; it’s no longer to possess that which I thought might bring me joy, but it is to possess the joy I thought it might bring.

Remember: The Joro’s web is much bigger than it needs to be.