Not much more than a quarter of a century ago the word "animism" began to be used to describe that particular phase of the psychological condition of primitive peoples by which they believe that a spirit (anima) resides in everything, material and immaterial. This spirit is generally closely associated with the thing itself, sometimes actually identified with it ... These doubles are not as yet gods, they are merely powers, potentialities, but in the course of time they develop into gods.
...
At the time when our knowledge of Roman religion begins, Rome is in possession of a great many gods, but very few of them are much more than names for powers. They are none of them personal enough to be connected together in myths. And this is the very simple reason why there was no such thing as a native Roman mythology[.] The gods of early Rome were neither married nor given in marriage; they had no children or grandchildren and there were no divine genealogies. Instead they were thought of occasionally as more or less individual powers, but usually as masses of potentialities, grouped together for convenience as the "gods of the country," the "gods of the storeroom," the "gods of the dead," etc. Even when they were conceived of as somewhat individual, they were usually very closely associated with the corresponding object, for example Vesta was not so much the goddess of the hearth as the goddess, "Hearth" itself, Janus not the god of doors so much as the god "Door."
When I was a child, I would anthropomorphize physical objects. I would feel sentimental attachment toward them. I wouldn't be able to throw them out, even after I couldn't use them anymore, or no longer needed them. Key chains. Old pens. Pretty cardboard boxes. Socks. They had been with me for a long time. They were precious. They were valuable in their own right as things in the world. Summarily to dispose of them would be too cruel. Part of it was also being unable to decide, for lack of life experience, if they were things I would need again. My closet and desk drawers were cluttered with things I couldn't throw out. When I finally did throw them out, it would be after long periods of hesitation, sometimes years. I would have to put them into the garbage in a single motion, without giving myself time to think, the way you'd pull off a band-aid when you didn't want it to hurt.
As an adult, it took a long time, but I finally developed the self-discipline to throw things away I no longer needed. I actually now dislike owning things beyond bare essentials and what's required for minimal comfort. I try to hold the line at new physical objects entering my possession. I'm not always successful. No matter how little money you spend, you end up owning things. A store you patronize has a promotion, and they give you a free something. You move to a new place and there's leftover stuff from the previous owner. You buy something to get part A, but it comes with parts B, C, and D, which you don't need. So, in order to maintain a simple and minimalist lifestyle, you have to be vigilant about disposing of superfluous stuff or not accepting new stuff from other people (where it's possible to do so politely). This has been a much different mode of existence than my childhood.
In the last few years, I have felt a third feeling growing, regarding objects and stuff. It's neither debilitating sentimental attachment nor cold utilitarianism. I don't want to possess unnecessary things. Nor do I want to sentimentalize them in a way that burdens my life. I don't want to impute to them separate spirits. Yet, I do want to recognize that their material existence is sheer magic and wonder in itself. Things are spirit, by virtue of existing. Reality is spirit. Reality and the patterns within it, called people, animals, and objects are, as it were, floating in mid-air with no apparent truer ground of existence to hold them up, which makes them spirits, spirits in a material sense--real world powers and potentialities. And once you recognize that this materialistic spirithood makes even physical objects, in a sense, 'alive', they seem to spill over with charming, tender humanity and to be worthy of receiving mercy & love. An old car abandoned in a gully, covered in vines, with its sagging, sorrow-filled headlight eyes. A shiny wrapper, dancing in the breeze, with its discordantly bright, unnatural colors. An old falling down table, not "rickety", but endearingly courageous in its old age.
I think this is partly the vision of life suggested in the films of Hayao Miyazaki. (This song is called 'The Merry-Go-Round of Life'. It was composed by Joe Hisaishi.)
No comments:
Post a Comment