Inspired by recent events in my life, here and elsewhere, and catalyzed by a presentation on ancient wisdom and respect for nature. Unfortunately, the piece is so short--less than 5 minutes--that I didn't get as much as I wanted.
The story opens with a man who concealed himself to take photographs, and was asked to not do that because the spirit in nature doesn't like it; a still image isn't part of the beauty of nature. He also told a story of a bright blanket that he put away because the colors didn't accord with the nature of the place, and was disturbing to others.
As a photographer, I winced and felt shock. What would be so if I did not take pictures of nature? Before I answer that question, I need to take a little walk.
I had read that some peoples did not like to have photographs taken of them, because the camera could capture the soul. I felt that was a reasonable position; this is why you ask permission to take pictures of others, so that you cause them no harm. I don't have to even ask, if I'm in a culture and am aware of it. Taking out a camera might as well be taking out a weapon in such a place.
I'm also aware of spiritual presences in places: dreams, building walls, land. When I go on interviews, I make it a point to stand silently for a moment, even if it's just a pause, to feel the atmosphere of the outside of the building, the lobby I enter, the people passing at that time. I usually can't describe the input, but I can feel traces of emotions, sometimes transparent colors. It's like walking through energy webs. It's neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It's just a thing. If I need to get more data, I can sometimes get it by opening my hands wide, letting my fingertips become antennae, and my face, a dish.
I am not aware of these things when I am out with the camera. Sometimes I am dimly aware that the camera blocks me from seeing. (And I just felt an energy spike when I typed that. Hmm.)
It's time to return to the question: what would be so if I did not take pictures of nature? These thoughts come now:
This is part of what makes me so prickly, as an aspie. If I am that unshielded, I have to have distance, downtime, recovery, relief. It hurts me to be around people who just barge through walls and doors they don't feel or see. What is more terrifying than a blind spirit with the power to change physical things contrary to their being and their will? Things that wear faces like mine, and robes of flesh like mine, but aren't like me?
This is why I wouldn't choose to be NT. I have known NT sensitives--extraordinary people who connect both here, and there. It must be very painful, to have what I have...twice.
And if I am lonely, it is not because I can't make friends. It's because I can't find them. I think the whole idea of "making" a friend suffers from the wrong verb.
The story opens with a man who concealed himself to take photographs, and was asked to not do that because the spirit in nature doesn't like it; a still image isn't part of the beauty of nature. He also told a story of a bright blanket that he put away because the colors didn't accord with the nature of the place, and was disturbing to others.
As a photographer, I winced and felt shock. What would be so if I did not take pictures of nature? Before I answer that question, I need to take a little walk.
I had read that some peoples did not like to have photographs taken of them, because the camera could capture the soul. I felt that was a reasonable position; this is why you ask permission to take pictures of others, so that you cause them no harm. I don't have to even ask, if I'm in a culture and am aware of it. Taking out a camera might as well be taking out a weapon in such a place.
I'm also aware of spiritual presences in places: dreams, building walls, land. When I go on interviews, I make it a point to stand silently for a moment, even if it's just a pause, to feel the atmosphere of the outside of the building, the lobby I enter, the people passing at that time. I usually can't describe the input, but I can feel traces of emotions, sometimes transparent colors. It's like walking through energy webs. It's neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It's just a thing. If I need to get more data, I can sometimes get it by opening my hands wide, letting my fingertips become antennae, and my face, a dish.
I am not aware of these things when I am out with the camera. Sometimes I am dimly aware that the camera blocks me from seeing. (And I just felt an energy spike when I typed that. Hmm.)
It's time to return to the question: what would be so if I did not take pictures of nature? These thoughts come now:
- I would not have the comfort I get from my albums here. I've curated some of my best work, and when I view them, I am soothed by the beauty. I can technically judge my management of color, composition, line, and form; and in a sense, that pleases my mathematically shaped mind. But the feeling of ease, of comfort...did that come because I took away a piece of the soul of the moment? Or is it because I'm so high on the food chain that I can afford to just look with my hungry eyes?
- Do moments have soul? Not just objects, animals, plants, and people, but moments themselves?
This is part of what makes me so prickly, as an aspie. If I am that unshielded, I have to have distance, downtime, recovery, relief. It hurts me to be around people who just barge through walls and doors they don't feel or see. What is more terrifying than a blind spirit with the power to change physical things contrary to their being and their will? Things that wear faces like mine, and robes of flesh like mine, but aren't like me?
This is why I wouldn't choose to be NT. I have known NT sensitives--extraordinary people who connect both here, and there. It must be very painful, to have what I have...twice.
And if I am lonely, it is not because I can't make friends. It's because I can't find them. I think the whole idea of "making" a friend suffers from the wrong verb.
