A Delightful Place To Be

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the-days-consecration
A Delightful Place To Be

In many ways, England at this time of year – around mid-Spring – is a delightful place to be, for there are Spring flowers, hedgerows in bloom, trees coming into leaf; the burgeoning Dawn Chorus, and quite often warmer and sunnier days heralding perhaps another Summer of dreams to be remembered, happily remembered, as the dark longer nights and the cold of Winter return as they return and we – perhaps with family, partner, friends – hunker ourselves down to await such warmer days, again.

Such simple delights, of such a childful joy; delights and a simplicity that I personally have come to value more and more as pathei-mathos and increasing age has slowed me in both body and thought, bringing – it seems – a certain repose, certainly a need for personal humility, for expiation, and certainly a feeling concerning, another intimation of, what for us humans is most valuable, most human, and possibly should be most desired. Which is the joy of a personal love shared; the companionship of family, friends; and that simple quite humble way of living arising when our life is just our and their life, when our concerns just our and their concerns, when our hopes and dreams are just our and their hopes; the life, the concerns, the hopes, the dreams, of those whom we love, we trust, and with whom we share the passing of our daily lives.

For decades I – flawed, hubriatic, dissatisfied, often angry, and often inclined toward violence – rejected such manifestations of our humanity as I pursued one and then another suffering-causing agenda; as I – extremist activist, agitator – stupidly arrogantly placed some abstraction, some ideal, some ideology, before personal love, before compassion, before empathy, before kindness, before family, before wu- wei. And it was during those four decades of hubris that I scribbled away, writing thousands and thousands of pages – propaganda, essays, ideological tracts, pamphlets – in praise of and trying to justify the extremisms I upheld and fought for. Worse, I not only supported violence and propagated hatred but pridefully, temerariously, saught to revise some abstractions and manufacture new abstractions in my attempts to motivate and inspire others and bring closer the downfall of ‘the system’ I then so disliked in the hope that some revolution, some violent struggle or other, might somehow and in some miraculous way bring into being a ‘new world’ founded on some ideological ideal and which ideal was always harsh and always founded on prejudice and intolerance, on some divisive division between ‘them’ and ‘us’. In the process, of course, I caused suffering. To loved ones, to family, to friends, and to others; to so many others, known or personally unknown to me. As I wrote earlier this year:

“I have no excuses; the failure of decades was mine. A failure of compassion, empathy, honour. A failure as a human being. There are no excuses for my past, for deeds such as mine. No excuses for selfishness, for a hubris of personal emotion. No excuse for deceit, deception, lies. No excuse for extremism, for racism, for the politics, the religion, of hate […]

I would like to believe – to hope – that this [my] personal, this interior, change, possibly evident in some recent writings of mine, and possibly also evident in my [philosophy of pathei-mathos] is positive, good; in some way counter-balances the hubris of my past, and is thereby some expiation, some propitiation, for at least some of the suffering caused. But it is for others, not for me, to judge whether that is so.” [1]

David Myatt
2nd April 2012

[1] The quotations are from the compilation of essays and letters entitled Meditations on Extremism, Remorse, and The Numinosity of Love.


Image credit: The Day’s Consecration by Richard Moult

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