03 Sep The Patron Saint of The Individual: Walt Whitman
[subscribe2]Becoming an genuine individual is a great risk and can usher in profound criticism from the world of convention where “approvals” are the hallmark of the day. The path of authenticity is “apolitical” in that it neither kowtows to the value of self-sacrifice to the greater good (defined by some group or ideology) nor does it worship at the altar of any self-achievement gained at the cost of others. Authenticity is owned by no collective. It raises no particular flag nor favors any exclusive color.
Prisons are full of misdirected ones who have broken the laws of social norm. Monasteries, mountains, deserts, and sanctuaries of all sorts abound with eccentrics whose individuality is as fragile as a teacup. Many of these at most are members of religious cults or terrorist groups of one sort or the other, blinded by filters of truth and force fed by a strong-willed, charismatic and manipulative dictator.
All who seek to be a true individual must forge a path away from the crowd and along a way that follows the hidden stream, with no bars to hold them captive nor cloister of comfort for their return.
Walt Whitman achieved this feat of feats, this challenge of challenges. Some of those who “know” and who can see deeper realities have stated emphatically that this human being was a highly advanced soul.
Walt Whitman brief bio— by Neale Lundgren
Walter “Walt” Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892) was an American mystic- poet, essayist and journalist. He maintains an emblem of honor that cannot be tarnished or erased by the critic who has not ventured into the wild territory that exists beyond the academic, church, town, state, or federal halls.
Excerpt From Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”:
I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rainproof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.
Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.
It is not far, it is within reach,
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,
Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.