Just finished reading William Irwin Thompson’s book of poetry, “Still Travels.” In it he reveals he is a mystic liken to Steiner or Jung, but leaning more towards Steiner. Though in most of his philosophical work he drops a hint of his experiences, he appears to feel at home in poetry. Can’t blame him! Poetry has a way of expressing things other ways simply cannot do. The poet has made just enough room in that mind of theirs for spirit to whisper up from the depths, or the Daimon to sing down into our bodies of mud and clay, and still produce a lotus.
“Still Traveling,” is another way of saying he has let the soul wander – sometimes through dreams, sometimes through mystical experience, regardless of where his physical body might be. When we go to sleep at night our spirit soars and we remember little of our wandering. What happens when we “stay awake” while our body slumbers? Like a true modern mystic, or perhaps yogi, Thompson has woven a wonderful landscape of images for the reader to explore. In a way, he takes you on a humble ride what would appear to be the akashic records, the bardo realms and even higher (or deeper), the realms of light and song. Definitely recommend picking this book up, if only to be exposed for a little while to the mind of a mystic in a time (how brief it may be!) where the soul is all but forgotten. Maybe it will inspire a few of us to begin to dream lucidly.
PS: Selections from Still Travels will be posted throughout the week!