Five days ago I am into arguments with everyone. It must be the mellow Mediterranean sea in combination with the refusal of my tourist visa to enter Australia for a month of borderless time in an off the grid cabin in Tasmania with the love of my life. The host of colliding emotions it invokes outweighs last night. Experiencing Christmas Eve in The Netherlands alone with my 84 years old ecclectic father, sipping half a glass of champagne for the sake of it and a full moon keeping me wide awake the whole night. Now it’s Christmas day. I return to Malta, alone. I’ll be finding myself with my back against one of it’s five thousand years old walls. Risk after risk after risk I’ve taken, ‘you gotta face looking death in the eye, when you want to be with you, Reina’. Yes baby, that’s what’s my dad says about me. After having been called a kamikaze pilot for decades this can be interpretated as a promotion in the illustrous way of the anti hero. It’s not anger that is my ennemie. It is fear. Anger is not the ennemie. It’s fear. From a logic point of view yes, I jeopardize symmetry, homeostasis and all sense of security. From a Mother Earth point of view I am yin, black, drawing in, mysteriously feminine. My father is scared to death, literally. Because this ‘feminine, non logic, thus incomprehensive female mind and what drives her, leads to imminent loss. My mum having left him for ever, ’till death did them part’.
Being dead or staying alive seems a matter of mentality. The deep conviction ‘Yes I can do It’ opens every door. The giant assumption ‘No I can’t’ annihilates any opportunity. A matter of mental health.
Health that in my case involves accepting emotions and working through them in whatever way. My father seems to be as appalled with my emotions as the love of my life challenges them. I’ve turned fifty. Where is my logic? It changed places with physical health, overwhelming emotions and wholehearted intended love. Weird to unveil the dynamics. The love of my life surely has invented logic in itself. As good couples we do our simple bit of antagonizing. But it goes far beyond that. I got hearts, he drew the logic numbers. We roll the dice. Queen of hearts for him. Nine of clubs*) for me. These playing cards cross our path, falling from the air.
Around the same place where the playing cards are given to us – a bit more then a year ago next to the remake of Captain Cooks cottage in Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne CBD – I run into a natural Fibonacci sample. A stem of a flower unfolding in perfect symmetry. How beautiful. Fibonacci brings nature back to numbers.
It’s striking, mankind’s effort and urge to bring things back to numbers. Or to put labels on people’s foreheads, on glass jars in laboratories and on commercial goods. We categorize and judge. It enables us to segregate, to take or discart in our quest to control the surrounding outside world.
Even words are judgements. A word labels something. A word aims to cover a concept and unveil it’s truth at the same time. By naming thunder we took a first step to start overruling the fearful treath thunder casts over us. By naming (labeling) the treath we took a first step towards getting to know our ennemie and to master the fear for it. The fear in us is our real ennemie. Not thunder itself. Thunder doesn’t know conscious, thunder can’t intentionally come after us. Meaning if we are able to distinguish it’s dynamics we will be able to prepare ourselves, defend ourselves against the hazard. However the simple act of identifying what’s outside us from what’s inside us means creating duality. It means stepping away from unity, from the point where all is one, from the safe and protected mother womb. Thus conscience is born: basically the ability to segregate.
Whether it’s numbers or words, beta versus alpha, doesn’t make a difference. Both symbols are ways to identify, categorize and to create order and comprehension in a seemingly absurd chaotic, randomly organized and overwhelmingly powerfull reality.
Five days ago my 9 year old daughter and I spent a good hour during our last day in Malta at Comino Island hiking around a bit. There’s a succulent plant that smells like cumin. However the real cumin grain no longer grows at the island’, tells the captain who sails the little ferry up and down between Gozo and Comino (cumin) island kind of mysteriously. It surely needs some googling.
We grow as we go. And the set rythm in which growth develops is almost killingly systematic. Thank you Leonardo for sorting out Fibonacci’s spiraling growth. Spiraling up as opposed to our often experienced mind spiraling down. Thank you for merging numeral science and evolving nature.
I’ve seldom seen the Mediterranean sea more beautiful then from the rocky coast of Comino island.
Il Millied Il Tajjieb, Maltese for Merry Christmas.
*) Nine of clubs, a playing card given to me in a café last year November, is an expression which according to Wikipedia signifies: work, a job. Queen of hearts is the playing card that around the same time, same place, was given to Brian and handed down to me: Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne CBD. Queen of hearts found shelter in my passport and has distracted many border officers since.