NEW MOONS & PALE ASSES: On Being Comfortable & Uncivilized, Meditating Naked, Alone, in The Woods

Pray inwardly, even if you do not enjoy it. It does good, though you feel nothing. Yes, even though you think you are doing nothing.

- JULIAN OF NORWICH
Fourteenth century English mystic

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It's a rare thing, anymore, for a supposedly civilized man in a supposedly civilized society - in the world's only remaining, albeit collapsing, "superpower," as it is - to find himself drawn to a remote spot in a wood for no purposeful reason, other than to to sit and meditate in silence in a weed-filled, secluded meadow in the so-called witching hours.

Completely naked, no less, beneath a very dark new moon, alone in the darkness with nothing but the sounds of critters in the surrounding grass, a whispering breeze, and my own heartbeat to keep my bare ass company.

Needless to say, obviously, I'm not the kind of civilized man of cultural superpower leisure one expects to find naked in the woods, meditating and pacing my breath down to an almost melodious purr.

Hey, I do my own thing. And the tendency to spontaneously strip naked in a field is, well, one of my many quirks. Sue me.

Bloggers and technocrats can't be into that weird metaphysical shit, you're probably saying right now. This is the 21st century! We have Wiis to make us fit, WOW tourneys to make us magical, and streaming audio sermons and e-book bibles to help us find faith...

Trust me when I say that some of those primitive things we've given up to build our civilizations are often the ones that, well, bring us the most peace. And the more we lose touch with things like our bodies, with nature, with our spiritual bond with this here plane of existence, the less peace we will know, our children and grandchildren will know.

It takes some getting used to in our Brave New World Order built upon junk ownership and 24-hour information - the embracing of momentary solitude as a fleeting eternity, the touch of your normally cloth-covered flesh intermingling with dandelions and scratchy twigs and even ants, the whole "Trying to feel at one with the world" thing often left to New Age self-help gurus to make a profit off of at air-conditioned retreats and cult meetings down at the mega-chain bookstore.

I'm sure, well, I'm being judged right now. And I don't care.

Seriously, when was the last time you were so naked and alone, so vulnerable and exposed, and yet felt completely comfortable with it?

* * * *

Throughout the mythology and folklore of much of the ancient world, it was the darkest phase of the lunar cycle that was often seen as the more powerful and benevolent than the full moon, a time for healing and fasting and, yes, even prayers and thanksgivings.

Hell, there's a reason all of our supernatural occult thrillers involving werewolves and teen vampires, zombies and demons, often center around the full moon. Our ancient forebears used to share those same legends, sans cinematography, CGI, or good screen-writing, around their hearths and campfires - for some odd reason, they usually associated the full moon's light with mischief and evil.

The NEW moon lore, however, often gets overlooked. Doesn't make for a good movie or trashy romance novel. Stories involving pale, illuminated demons make for better suspense than, oh, say stories that often involve good omens, faith, and solitude.

Which, well, for guys like me, tends to be a good thing.

Can you imagine if, like with full moons, the same Ohio woods I've learned to disappear into on certain nights, for meditation and contemplation, were suddenly filled with goth kids playing at witchcraft, pale-ass hipsters covered in glitter and opining undead, bloodsucking heartthrobs, or hordes of crop-circle crazy housewives and spinsters in search of Divine Mother Earth crap they read about in some poorly written ecofeminist manifesto?

* * * *

I've meditated, alone, all over this country. And this rather uncivilized ritual is, of course, not limited to mere new moons, nudity, or even the mere absence of other people.

In California, beneath a live oak in an old, abandoned cemetery, overlooking a gorgeous series of box canyons and vineyards. In Wyoming, there was this sea of the most gorgeous golden grain right before a late summer storm I came upon after covering a Legion baseball game - I felt the whole universe burst upon my chest like a mortar. Virginia, well, I had this spot on the farm near the train tracks.

One of the best moments, ever, was in Denver, smack dab in the middle of Larimer Square, at four in the morning, right as snow was starting to fall. Of course, sure, I was clothed in below-freezing weather, and of course, the place was crawling with the usual homeless folk digging for scraps in the trash bins. But, oh, how beautifully still and tranquil a city such as Denver becomes as snow falls.

There's been motel rooms in Mississippi, dark, empty truckstops in Arizona, beaches in Florida, dust-choked tamale stands in southwestern Texas near the Rio Grande. Once, in a crowded art gallery opening. Another time while pulling barbed wire to repair a section of fence, perfect transendental moments at rodeos, in barber shops, even while playing chess with a Buddhist monk.

Meditation requires no ritual, no spontaneous nudity. There is no right or wrong way to do it. The magic of life is that it just keeps happening, like shit. It takes effort to slow down the self long enough to catch that beautiful alchemy in the act.

* * * *

So, well, what do I get out of vanishing into the bush, on a lark, out of stripping naked beneath a long-ignored new moon?

In all honesty, I couldn't tell you. The way that can be spoken or written, according to Lao Tzu, cannot be the way. If I put words to the few moments of calm, those moments would cease to have meaning.

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PRAYING FOR IGNORANCE NEVER SAVED A DAMNED SOUL: Of Quantum Mechanic Dreams & The Nightmares of Blind Faith-Based Education

If we had a reliable way to label our toys good and bad, it would be easy to regulate technology wisely. But we can rarely see far enough ahead to know which road leads to damnation.

- Freeman John Dyson,
Physicist and Mathematician,
from Disturbing the Universe, 1979

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I began my own college career back in the Fall of 1996 - not as an aspiring journalist, not as a future writer or librarian, but as a hopeful young physicist.

Yes, I wanted to be a formula jockey, a Quantum Mechanics grease-monkey, a Man of Science.

Okay... better explain this a bit...

... I guess I was what educators call a gifted, advanced student - basically, a polite way of saying that you're intellectually retarded, but in a good way.

So gifted and advanced, in fact, that I never had a "Freshman year" in college - I completed 30 credit-hours, a whole academic year's worth of classes, while still in high school. And despite all of my drug abuse and violent tendencies back then, I even managed to rack up enough credits in integral and differential calculus to officially earn my nerd stripes.

Hell, I figured, aspiring physicists need calculus at an early age. And how I loved physics! How I dreamt whilst drinking MD 20/20 in high school of toying with the EPR paradox for a living!

My senior year in high school, I'm not ashamed to admit, I spent quite a few Sunday afternoons on the porch of a sorta famous, Soviet defector physicist, picking his brain, drinking vodka and eating pelmeni whilst being lectured on both my brutish immaturities and Bell's theorem...

But I digress.

To this day, well, even long after my dreams of being one of those hardened, wild-haired theorists were squashed by my inability to pass those annoying chemistry courses, I'm still fascinated by the fact that everything on this planet falls with a gravitational acceleration of somewhere between 9.78 and 9.82 meters per second, squared.

I just wasn't cut out to be a physicist. However, I did find a calling as an information scientist...

Sorta.

* * * *

Thankfully, the world is run by better men and women than myself - real scientists and mathematicians who could get past those courses, who went on to run our world's research labs, to design and formulate and project the trajectories of our Mars landings and Deep Space probes, who figure out new ways to calculate our distances from and sizes of the smallest atoms and the largest suns.

Yes, Men and Women of Science created our modern world. Those men and women solve the layman's unsolvable, dedicate their lives to studying what many of us simply don't have the fortitude to comprehend. The politicos and armchair quarterback and celebrities be damned!

The laptop upon which I'm typing was made possible by the tireless efforts of mathematicians and scientists, by complex mechanics and programming and circuitry engineering that boggles the mind. The wireless Internet connection I'm using right now, the Internet itself, is the creation of our planet's collective genius.

There isn't too damned much in our technological world, in fact, that wasn't made possible by someone's research, wasn't first an idea first published in someone's dissertation or thesis, wasn't cooked up in some cold lab or drafty classroom.

Men like Freeman Dyson, yes, choose to build for us worlds of knowledge where faith is meaningless without critique and calculation, where even the best theory relies on some unseeable, intrinsic faith as it approaches the point at which it is to be tested.

Our Albert Einsteins and Isaac Newtons and Richard Feynmens and Copernicuses, our Stephen Hawkings and our Igor Tamms... their works represent Man's desire to come as close to whatever that mystery is that some call God as man can get without being driven insane.

Blessed be the thinkers, for they are the ones chosen by whatever powers that control this existence to be both condemned and praised for daring to imagine the unknown.

* * * *

As I listened to this group of college students huddled together, I recalled, for some reason, that passion I once had for physics, that sacred brushing of the face of God found in integers and variables and, yes, even the potential to discover the mechanics behind The Universe's meaning.

The undergrad prayer group (or some such thing) was debating amongst themselves, asking each other questions about why more people don't simply turn to prayer whenever the world gets under their skin, why people dare to argue that the supposedly infallible words of God were never meant to be taken literal, why kids in their science labs roll eyes whilst they argue that their Sunday School teacher told them that evolutionary theory is a conspiracy theory against Christ and the Southern Baptist Convention...

One woman, I overheard, was going to call her youth pastor for a letter, a letter to get her out of certain readings in a general education class. God created the world, so the legend goes, in six days - He took Sundays off to watch football. How dare she be forced to read heresy at - GASP! - a university!

It was to be her mission to end such things, to exempt the Flock from the wolves in the pastures of intellectual pursuit. The other group members nodded their heads in agreement, suggested things like a prayer for guidance and strength and for the faculty to all embrace that Jewish carpenter of lore...

* * * *

I'd write more about their alms and concerns and strange conversation, but, well, I'm afraid that the teenage aspiring physicist still buried inside me would puke up a rather tasty blueberry muffin the adult me really enjoyed.

Let's just say that some conversations, for one who believes that Faith, Reason, and Knowledge are the three-legged foundation upon which our great future is built, are simply hard to stomach repeating in the 21st Century, even for me.

And let's just say, too, that the next evolutionary biologist, genetic researcher, or geographer I meet will get a hearty thank you for dedicating themselves to shedding some light on our species' origin, on the history of our world, on how our own bodies work and change over time.

* * * *

What a waste of life, to debate such things with a groupthink faith devoid of reason! To waste the kinetic gift of spiritual faith, to waste a belief in a beautiful, loving god by plotting to stop Man's quest for knowledge over something as silly as a personal offense.

Constant agreement to maintain our sense of control in life's grand experiment, with prayers to eliminate the disconcerting variables that fly in the face of our beliefs, yes! That's the solution to the world's tangible problems, to understanding things like our DNA's mysteries and the existence of space-time!

Pray for it to all go away! Ask the youth pastor for a protest letter in support of some horseshit called Creation Science!

Organized religion really may be on its way back to its primordial roots of cruel buffoonery and superstitious stupidity, if this is all that is left of the Spirit.

Hopefully not, but, well, if I were one day forced to choose between faithless Science and thoughtless Religion, my take has always been to use the Bible for kindling if it gets in the way of curing cancer.

That sucking sound you hear? Normal around these parts, actually.

* * * *

I will never understand how anyone could attend college with an expectation that their belief in an Earth that revolves around a prayer group or a church doctrine will be simply validated as common knowledge, that the exploration of the mysteries behind our world and existence, our glorious Sun and heavenly galaxy's workings, shouldn't be taught because some people find such things Satanic.

To think, and to be challenged to think, is in the minds of some folks a damnable offense. And that's tragic. How little we've really learned from our great thinkers, artists, and, especially our scientists over the whole of the Human Existence.

At the root of the great tragedies of this world, from the purges of Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union to the horrible events of September 11th and the various genocidal insanities of our modern life, one always finds some similar need to protect Man from our ideas, from our science and logic and reason, art and literature and other beautiful things.

The greatest damnation, of our gods and of ourselves, comes from our own quixotic quest to keep our world blissfully ignorant. Ignorance is not bliss.

Instead, it is merely the Mephistopheles of our fears, of our desire to stay stagnant, creating worlds more hollow and meaningless than any illusion Doctor Faustus could ever invent.

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