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Melkor’s Lies: How to Remove the Fear of Death

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How to remove the fear of death? Speaking of the beginning of days, The Silmarillion says that IlĂșvatar gave Men “strange gifts.” First, he set eternity in their hearts so they would always desire to go beyond the visible world:

“But to the Atani I will give a new gift.’ Therefore he willed that the hearts of Men should seek beyond the world and should find no rest therein; but they should have a virtue to shape their life, amid the powers and chances of the world, beyond the Music of the Ainur, which is as fate to all things else.” The Silmarillion

Second, he gave them a gift of finiteness.

“Death is their fate, the gift of IlĂșvatar, which as Time wears even the Powers shall envy.”

But what is there to envy? Why would even the Valar envy Men? It turns out that in the beginning, Men didn’t fear death. Fear of death was instilled into their hearts by Melkor who deceived them by saying that it was Iluvatar’s punishment rather than a gift.

“But Melkor has cast his shadow upon it, and confounded it with darkness, and brought forth evil out of good, and fear out of hope.”

Melkor’s shadow had a name; its name was Ungoliant—a monstrous spider born out of his envy. She was neither an Ainur nor Maiar. Most likely, she was Melkor’s Shadow-Self, his own insatiable darkness, which he feared. It was Ungoliant who first spun a spiritual darkness called Unlight, for it was made in mockery of light.

“The Light failed; but the Darkness that followed was more than loss of light. In that hour was made a Darkness that seemed not lack but a thing with being of its own: for it was indeed made by malice out of Light.”

The darkness that existed before was not a spiritual darkness—it was merely an absence of light. That first darkness was part of a good creation. When the Elves awakened at the Bay of CuiviĂ©nen, they beheld the stars of Varda in the night sky for a long age. There was nothing scary about it. Light and darkness were but paints in the hand of Iluvatar.

Ungoliant infused the first darkness with malice, filling it with “nets of strangling doom.” She cast Melkor’s shadow on it. Darkness became a source of existential fear. Later, Melkor cast his shadow upon the gift of Iluvatar—Man’s mortality. He deceived Men into believing that death was not a gift but a doom, and they started craving immortality. Eventually, they decided to seize it by force, which led to the fall of Numenor.

Melkor impressed upon the hearts of Men that death was a punishment—a severing from Iluvatar. Distorted by Morgoth’s lies, death became a mockery of God’s gift—Men’s ability to leave the Circles of the World and be renewed. While the Elves were bound to the fate of the world, growing weary of its unending cycles, Men were granted the grace to depart and be renewed.

In the beginning, there was no more fear in dying than in falling asleep. Men knew they would get up “in the morning” refreshed. They simply let go of their consciousness and slept, until newness, freshness, rest, restoration, and hope overtook them.

Curiously, most people who have had a near-death experience report that after their return, they no longer fear death. A friend of a friend—who died of a brain tumor, saw heaven, and returned after being miraculously healed—says she doesn’t fear dying anymore. She says, there is no death. You don’t even lose consciousness.

“What struck you the most in Heaven?” asked the person who interviewed her. She answered, “That God is a Sound—an ineffable and irresistible Sound that you hear everywhere: in all things, in others, and in yourself.”

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Beyond Suspicion: Rediscovering the Will to Trust with Paul RicƓur

The French philosopher Paul RicƓur pointed out that, for the last two centuries, philosophy has been developing in the mode of suspicion. “Philosophers of suspicion” like Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Sigmund Freud, argue that when you believe you are acting for certain reasons, you often fail to realize that your actions are driven by hidden forces.

Marx suspected that all human actions were driven by economics, Nietzsche by the will to power, and Freud by the unconscious.

In other words, when you act a certain way, you may think you have clear reasons for acting this way, but in reality, you do it because of

1) economic conditions,

2) desire for power,

3) unconscious drives.

Philosophers of suspicion have led us to believe that thinking must be rooted solely in suspicion.

“What do we mean by ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’? This school of interpretation involves a radical critique of consciousness, an effort to unmask the hidden meanings behind the apparent ones. It is a mode of interpretation pioneered by Marx, Nietzsche, and Freud, each of whom tried to expose the illusions of consciousness and reveal the structures of power, desire, and the unconscious that lie beneath.” Paul RicƓur

There’s nothing wrong with hermeneutics of suspicion as such. It is true that some human actions are driven by economics, some by the will to power, and some by the unconscious. But not all—and not always.

Paul RicƓur contrasts “hermeneutics of suspicion” with “hermeneutics of trust.” Instead of deconstructing someone’s meaning, he suggests assuming that there is one and seeking to recover it.

“To interpret is to render near what is far, to appropriate what is strange, to make one’s own what was initially alien. Interpretation, then, is guided by a ‘will to trust.’”

What is a will to trust? It means that when I meet someone I do not start with suspicion about the source of their actions but become a witness—someone who “endures” the other person’s presence in the hope of being surprised.

“The witness testifies to an event which has touched him or her deeply, physically or morally. As such, testimony is more than a recounting of facts; it is an expression of responsibility, a call to remembrance and a summons to the ethical imperative of remembering.” (Memory, History, Forgetting)

A person’s actions may be motivated by economics, the will to power, or unconscious drives, but my goal in meeting them is to become a witnessing presence to encounter something wonderful. I become a witness because my primary motivation is to encounter a witness—someone so full of wonder that you can’t miss it.

The Greek word for “witness” is ÎŒÎŹÏÏ„Ï…Ï‚ (martys), from which we derive the word “martyr.” In ancient times, a martyr was seen as the ultimate witness. Martyrs witness to Wonder so profoundly that you can’t help seeing it. Wonder is contagious. You read it off their faces. Their faces testify that they are above economics, the will to power, or unconscious drives.

Philosophy of suspicion cannot survive in the presence of a true witness. A true witness turns you into a witness too. As Wonder passes from one person to another, suspicion dies. When you see wonder in the eyes of a martyr, you stop seeking “explanations” for their behavior. You simply stand there, stock still, smitten by the “will to trust.”

As the Roman centurion exclaimed, â€œTruly this man was the Son of God!”

You are not naive—you know that at a certain level, a person’s actions may be caused by economics, the will to power, or unconscious drives. But not now. Not when you see â€œthat.” When you see that, you don’t interpret. All hermeneutics ceases—you simply witness. You feel touched, moved. There is nothing in your mind except “the ethical imperative of remembering.”

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What is True Art? Tolkien and Heidegger on Art vs. Machine

What is true art? Speaking of “The Machine” in On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien contrasts it with organic, sub-creative work of a true artist or storyteller.

By the [Machine] I intend all use of external plans or devices (apparatus) instead of development of the inherent inner powers or talents—or even the use of these talents with the corrupted motive of dominating: bulldozing the real world, or coercing other wills.

So, what is the Machine? It’s anything external I use to force my will upon the world. According to Tolkien, the Machine differs from Art (sub-creation) in that it arises from a desire to amplify self-will rather than from an attunement to the Music of IlĂșvatar.

All true Art, which is the province of the Elves, proceeds from one’s inner alignment with the Great Music. The Elves first hear the Music and then express it through their Art. Their purpose is to attune to the Thought of IlĂșvatar in all things and to pour this harmony into the world. In contrast, the purpose of the Machine-creator is to attune to self-will and devise ways to impose it upon the outer world.

Art is prayer springing from: â€œThy will be done”; the Machine is anti-prayer springing from: â€œMy will be done.” Art is internal; the Machine is external. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien insists that evil cannot be defeated by wielding the Power of the Ring.

You can make the Ring into an allegory of our own time, if you like: an allegory of the inevitable fate that waits for all attempts to defeat evil power by power. Letter 96 to Christopher

When we use external means to defeat external means we amplify the external means. The Machine perpetuates the Machine. Power cannot defeat power. Paradise cannot be achieved through external means. Only the renunciation of power can overcome power. Art is the ultimate renunciation of external power and amplification of the internal power—the intrinsic power of Being.

That’s why the Art of the Elves is not technology. It may look like technology—Elvish ropes, robes, fials, boats, lembas bread, blades, ploughs, bows, harps, bowls, etc.—its purpose is not domination but the manifestation of the Great Music in the world. All Art taps into spiritual power and brings it into the physical realm, which is the ultimate triumph over evil.

The “products” of Art reveal the Music. That’s why the Elvish rope burns Gollum’s neck—he can’t bear the “sound” of the Great Music. That’s why all Elvish things ward off evil, not through external force but by the light they emanate. The “power” of Sting lies not in its external properties but in how much Divine light it carries.

Elvish tools—chisels, harps, hammers, bowls—are not technology in the conventional sense of the word but an organic part of the creative process. Elvish boats are carved with Elvish knives, each infused with a prayer to Elbereth. Elvish tools are not “external means” to bend reality to the Elvish will; they are an outer expression of their inner attunement to the Higher Will. So, what is true art?

As Heidegger says in his essay The Question Concerning Technology, modern technology is not just an instrument — it’s a way of revealing (aletheia). It reveals how we view the world. It is a Gestell (enframing) — a rigid framework that configures our vision, causing us to see everything as a resource. Its purpose is to order and command nature, not to listen to its Song.

Modern technology doesn’t hear any Song, and it teaches us not to hear it either. It limits our perception of reality, reducing everything—including humans—to mere means to an end. After renouncing the nature of modern technology as a Gestell, Heidegger concludes,

Because the essence of technology is nothing technological, essential reflection upon technology and decisive confrontation with it must happen in a realm that is, on the one hand, akin to the essence of technology and, on the other, fundamentally different from it. Such a realm is art.

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What Does it Mean to Be Ordinary People?

Sunset at Horsehoe Bay, Magnetic Island, Queensland, Australia. A 2-section panorama of twilight colours and crepuscular rays, taken with Canon 60Da and 10-22mm lens.

What does it mean to be ordinary people? G.K. Chesterton famously said,

“The most extraordinary thing in the world is an ordinary man and an ordinary woman and their ordinary children.” G.K. Chesterton

Dante was regarded as a poeta popolare—a poet of the people—and he took pride in that title. He was read and loved by ordinary people rather than intellectuals. When I first read The Divine Comedy in the early 2000s, most of it went over my head—except for a few haunting images from Inferno.

In the 14th century, however, ordinary Florentine citizens gathered money to establish a Dante cathedra (a professorship dedicated to Dante’s works) at Santa Maria del Fiore. Giovanni Boccaccio was the first one to occupy that cathedra and read Divine Comedy to common city folk passing through the cathedral on the way to work.

Somehow, culture has little to do with intelligence but everything to do with mysticism. Pure intellect is incapable of the one thing from which culture emerges—love. Intellect shuns emotion and filters out what it cannot see, touch, calculate, or predict.

“If it can’t be measured, it doesn’t exist.” Intellect is very good at constructing but very bad at creating.

“The whole difference between construction and creation is exactly this: that a thing constructed can only be loved after it is constructed; but a thing created is loved before it exists.” Charles Dickens

Ordinary people are extraordinary because they are lovers. They are never professionals but always amateurs (from Latin amor â€” love). They love, and that’s why they are capable of creating. What is not loved, cannot be created — it can only be constructed. Constructed reality is artificial. It lacks the Love and Life that all mystics delight in, because they tread on earth and wander in fairyland at the same time.

“The ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has always been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight. He has always had one foot in earth and the other in fairyland.” G.K. Chesterton

Ordinary people permit twilight. They understand that what they see are particles of light scattered through the atmosphere at a certain angle. And yet, they see twilight. They are mystics; in the scattering of light, they see marriage between heaven and earth. For them, there is no contradiction.

Their mystical gaze pierces through the veil of the physical as an arrow of Cupid pierces the heart with love and desire. They understand that to truly dwell on earth, you must have one foot in fairyland. Without fairyland, there is no earth. With fairyland, there is both heaven and earth.

God himself is a lover, not a professional. He loved twilight before it emerged—that’s why it emerged. The ordinary person, through their love of twilight, recognizes the essence of twilight. Particles of light is not what it is but only what it is made of. To love is the highest form of sanity. To be in the right mind is to delight in the twilight — in everything where heaven meets the earth.

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The Power of Brokenness and the Kiss That Makes Us Whole

What is the power of brokenness? According to Dr. John Gottman, extending kisses to six seconds may be a key to improving relationships. He also cites studies showing that people who are kissed regularly can live up to five years longer.

I couldn’t resist the urge to look up the etymology of the word “kiss” when I heard that. Especially because in Russian (my native language), the word for kiss is closely related to the word “wholeness” or “to make whole” (Ń†Đ”Đ»ĐŸĐČать = ĐŽĐ”Đ»Đ°Ń‚ŃŒ Ń†Đ”Đ»Ń‹ĐŒ).

Even though in English there is no obvious connection between “kiss” and “wholeness,” the old English â€œcoss” meant “embrace,” as in greeting. Maybe that’s why a “kiss” was often associated with greeting, as in:

“Greet (or salute) each other with a holy kiss.”

Incidentally, the Greek for “greet” (aspasasthe) used in this verse also meant embrace. But there is another interesting twist to greeting or saluting which has to do with wishing someone health (or hailing). According to the etymological dictionary, “to salute” comes from Latin “salutare,” which means “wish health to.”

The verb â€œsalutare” is derived from the root â€œsol” (Sun), which means “whole, safe, well-kept.” In other words, when we “kiss — salute — embrace” we make the person whole. Hailing is healing.

Healing is a profound mystery. Health has to do with wholeness, and wholeness has to do with being hailed or embraced. When something is broken, we gather the shards into an embrace and breathe new life into it (symbolically by kissing).

By kissing or saluting we return the person to “Sol” (the Sun in Latin) which symbolizes wholeness and safety. Kissing means returning the person to the Sun-wholeness. The Sun makes us whole. The mystery of healing is deep just as the mystery of brokenness.

Our brokenness is not a problem to be fixed but a mystery to be explored. It is something to watch as Jesus said to his disciples in Gethsemane:

“Watch with me.”

What did he want them to observe? He wanted them to participate with him in the mystery of brokenness being turned to wholeness. He who was broken by a kiss of a friend was made whole by the kiss of the Father.

“Righteousness and peace have kissed each other.” Psalm 85.

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Does Magic Exist in Middle-Earth?

Does magic exist in Middle-Earth? After the Company had received miraculous gifts from the Elves of Lothlórien — lembas bread, ropes made of hithlain, superlight boats, and “magic” cloaks — Pippin asked:

‘Are these magic cloaks?’ asked Pippin, looking at them with wonder.

‘I do not know what you mean by that,’ answered the leader of the Elves. ‘They are fair garments, and the web is good, for it was made in this land. They are Elvish robes certainly, if that is what you mean. Leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lorien that we love; for we put the thought of all that we love into all that we make.’

Whatever Elves make looks like technology but feels like music. They make in the law in which they were made. They infuse all they make with Music of Iluvatar whence they came. They hearken unto the Music and capture it in whatever their hands touch. All they create is prayer — attuning to the celestial Music and letting it flow into the world.

Music doesn’t manipulate. Beauty never coerces; it invites. Take it or leave it. It’s not going to force you. The Machine, on the other hand, does force. It is not made from a desire to capture the Music. It is made from a desire to dominate. The Machine is the opposite of prayer. Prayer is about: “Thy will be done”; technology is about: “My will be done.”

The heart of the Machine is bulldozing reality to fit my will. The heart of prayer is tuning in to the invisible Law behind all things and reflecting it in whatever you do. That’s why the art of the Elves is not technology even though it looks like technology. Their creations are spun from prayer — their attunement to the Great Music.

When you pray, you create art. When you seek to bend reality to your desires, you build the Machine. When you pray, you don’t think about your desires — your only desire is to become small and be caught by the mighty Flow of Beauty. When you wish to dominate, all you think about is how to force the world to fulfill your desires.

The fundamental difference between art and technology lies in the will. It’s either: “Thy will be done” or: “My will be done.” As Martin Buber pointed out, God is either Thou or “it.” When God is Thou, he invites you into a personal relationship with him — to join the Great Dance. When God is “it,” no relationship is possible. The only way to relate to “it” is through domination.

When we don’t see the Divine behind visible phenomena, we seek to dominate the phenomena. They become mere instruments to fulfill my wishes. If I see the world as “it,” not Thou, I create the Machine. If I see God as Thou, not it, I see his Presence behind all phenomena and create Art.

Art may look very similar to technology, but it feels like Music. Art is humble; its desire is to become small so the Music can be big. That’s why all the Elvish gifts had such incredible power. They were infused with the power of the Music of creation captured through prayer and contemplation.

“Spirit is not in the I, but between the I and the Thou.” – Martin Buber

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What is the Mystery of Motherhood?

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What is the mystery of motherhood? When you read about the “hand of God,” it’s natural to imagine some sort of hand. Even though God is Spirit, we are told he has hands, feet, fingers, ears, eyes, face, etc. Apparently, such anthropomorphisms carry profound significance. Eventually, we realize that spiritual hands, feet, arms, and faces truly exist — they are realities of which our human hands, feet, arms, and faces are but shadows.

The phenomenon of God’s spiritual hand was beautifully captured by George VI, King of England, who said at the beginning of WWII that he had asked God about the future of his people and God replied,

“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”

Somehow, we all know what a “spiritual hand” is. Most of us experienced it as children. Remember walking into a dark room as a little boy or girl, terrified of the boogeymen, ghosts, and monsters hiding in the shadows? The fear was overwhelming—until the moment our mother took us by the hand. Suddenly, we found the courage to go in.

Deep down, we knew that our fragile mother could not possibly defeat all the fire-breathing dragons that lurked under the bed. But the moment we took her hand, we miraculously felt safe. We were utterly certain that somehow, she would prevail. She is the mother, after all.

The phenomenon of the mother’s hand is purely spiritual. It’s paradoxical too — on the one hand, we know the mother cannot possibly prevail against such odds, and yet we feel totally secure as if she had hidden powers. As if there was more to her than met the eye. As if her gentle hand was a spiritual hand.

What is a spiritual hand? It is a hand that holds a power far beyond what it may appear to possess. It is infinite. It takes up certain physical space, but its reach is boundless and all-encompassing. True victory over fear is not when we can predict the future and make plans A, B, and C, but when we have the “hand of God” experience embodied in some material form.

We have had it in childhood when we held our mother’s hand. But this isn’t the only way to encounter it. This experience can come to us in many ways and forms. God’s spiritual hand is revealed through some physical medium. Spirituality is always revealed through physicality. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

The hand of God is present here, too. Its mystery is always embodied in something tangible. We can see it in the smiles of our friends gathered around a dinner table. We can hear it in the rustling of autumn leaves beneath our feet. Or we can feel it when gazing into the eyes of a saint.

Its effect is irresistible — it calms us down and relieves our fears. God’s spiritual hand is everywhere, but it must be recognized. It always hides behind humble appearances. Its power is immense but hidden. It invites us to look for it. To whom has God’s hand been revealed?

“To whom is the arm of the LORD revealed? For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.”

The mother’s hand is the ultimate embodiment of the mystery of God’s hand. It is something humble and hidden in the physical world that nests infinite power. When we experience it, we become infinitely bold and happy. When we hold that hand, we can walk through any darkness.

We don’t need certainty or knowledge of what lies ahead. We can step out into the unknown because we have something better than light — the experience of being held.

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What is the Truth Behind Optical Illusions?

What is the truth behind optical illusions? “My Wife and My Mother-in-Law” is a well-known optical illusion that presents two different images in one. It was created by the British cartoonist W.E. Hill in 1915. The drawing cleverly shifts between two perspectives: you can either see a young lady looking away or an older woman with a large nose and chin.

The paradox of all optical illusions is that the viewer’s mind cannot see two images simultaneously. It has to switch. This presents a huge philosophical conundrum — if people can look at the same thing but see two different pictures, how can we tell if there’s an objective reality? It all depends on what you focus on.

The “aha” moment comes when we discover the two pictures. Of course, we can’t see them simultaneously, but we can switch between them. The very act of switching seems magical in and of itself — after all, we see that every line in every image is exactly in its place. Yet, the brain cannot perceive two things simultaneously — no matter how much we try.

So, what is objective reality? Can I look at something and definitively say, “This is
”? Unless I question how I see before I decide what I see, I don’t really see. The â€œhow I see” always precedes “what I see.” Unless I question my semantics and see how I see, I will be under the illusion of seeing. As Jesus said, “Though seeing, they do not see.”

If I absolutize my way of seeing — my semantics — I will create an idol. I will say, “There’s nothing else to see here besides what I see.” The absolutization of one perspective is the end of true seeing. It is semantic idolatry. An idol always arrests our gaze and does not let us see beyond.

The opposite of semantic idolatry is semantic transcendence. The moment I realize there are at least two pictures to see, I stop absolutizing my own. I start switching between the two. But I don’t absolutize the second one either. Both are but shadows of reality, not reality itself.

When I realize that the “real switching” is not between the two pictures (or two cultural semantics) but between shadows and Truth, I start seeing. My eyes open. It’s not just a young lady or just an old woman. These are but shadows of reality. They are symbols that must be transcended. When I realize that my way of seeing is symbolic, I realize that all the symbols are real inasmuch as I see through them, not at them.

Shadows are not absolute. The Absolute lies beyond the shadows. In the Absolute, opposites converge.

“God is the coincidence of opposites.” Nicholas of Cusa

In God, all contradictions converge and are reconciled. Now we see partially, as in a mirror. Then, we will see face to face. In God, we see two (or more) pictures at the same time without having to switch between them because we see with the heart, not the mind. The heart perceives an old woman in every young lady and a young lady in every old woman. It doesn’t mistake a symbol for reality. It transcends the shadows and becomes sane.

“The ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has always been a mystic
 He has always had one foot in earth and the other in fairyland
 If he saw two truths that seemed to contradict each other, he would take the two truths and the contradiction along with them. His spiritual sight is stereoscopic, like his physical sight: he sees two different pictures at once and yet sees all the better for that.” G.K. Chesterton (Orthodoxy)

In God, we see two things simultaneously. The mind cannot grasp the Whole — it has to switch. The heart can. Mystical vision is stereoscopic. It allows me to see the Whole without sacrificing either part. The moment I see God, I start seeing The Face behind every face.

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What Do Plato and C.S. Lewis Have in Common?

What do Plato and C.S. Lewis have in common? One curious thing about Platonic ideas is that Plato used the Greek word for idea (ΔጎΎω, eidƍ), which means “to see,” to denote something one cannot see. For Plato, the idea of a thing is its invisible essence. A carrot can be seen; the idea of a carrot cannot. “Carrotness” is invisible.

And yet, Plato uses the word “ΔጎΎω,” which means “to see,” to point to the invisible. Why? How do you see the invisible? In Plato’s mind, a thing is not in one of two states — existing or not existing. It can be in a wide range of states depending on how far it is from the Idea of the thing. The closer a thing is to the Idea of the thing the more it “exists.”

That’s why Plato uses the term “anamnesis,” which means re-collection,to suggest that learning is essentially the soul’s act of remembering something that it has always known from its existence in the realm of Ideas. The soul is from that realm. It recognizes the perfect Ideas behind the shadows of this world — or it doesn’t.

That’s why human consciousness is symbolic. Whatever it looks at, it tries to “see” (ΔጎΎω) — or rather “see through.” Its question is, “Do I recognize what’s behind this thing or not?” For the soul all things are symbolic. It strives to see the primal creative Logos (the perfect Idea) behind all things.

When it doesn’t it feels bad — the soul abides in the realm of symbols. When it does, it feels good because it recognizes its homeland. When the soul reads the pure poesis off the creation, it thrives. In Hebrews 8:5, it says about priests:

“They serve at a sanctuary that is a copy and shadow of what is in heaven. This is why Moses was warned when he was about to build the tabernacle: ‘See to it that you make everything according to the pattern shown you on the mountain.’”

When the soul creates, it always re-creates. It strives to remember what it saw in heaven before creating something on earth. It wants to create things that “truly exist.” The more symbolic meaning it imbues in a thing, the more it reminds us of heaven.

“Creation happens when the conscious mind allows the deeper, unconscious forces to emerge and manifest in the form of symbols.” Carl Jung

That’s why C.S. Lewis says in The Four Loves,

“The most important thing a mother can do for her child is to show him that he does not need her.”

The best form of parenting is to gradually redirect the child’s gaze from shadows to realities. The role of the mother (and father) is to show the child that they are not their real mother and father. They have Another Mother and Father. Human parenting is at its best when the child’s gaze is not tied to their earthly parents but sees through the parents to catch a glimpse of the real Mother and Father.

What do Plato and C.S. Lewis have in common?

A shadow is good only when it points to heaven and bad when it blocks the view of heaven. We think we live among things, but we live among symbols. If we are surrounded by things that cannot be recognized as symbols, we feel dead inside. When we recognize things as symbols, we come alive. Our eyes sparkle. We recognize the primordial poesis (the making) behind the world of shadows. We return home.

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What is the Homo Ludens Theory?

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What is the Homo Ludens theory? In The Sounds of Music, when Fraulein Maria arrives at the von Trapp house and speaks with the housekeeper, Frau Schmidt, about the children, Frau Schmidt says:

“The von Trapp children don’t play; they march.”

Captain von Trapp, who had lost his wife, lost his ability to play. He was running away from himself. Grief turned him into a detached disciplinarian. Ironically, this was happening in the 1930s when Johan Huizinga, a Dutch historian, was writing his Homo Ludens (Man the Player).

Observing Nazi Germany in the 1930s, he felt that the spirit of play and spontaneity was slowly replaced by marching. The country was forgetting how to play. Play is spontaneous by definition. No one can be made to play. You can make people march but not play.

Play comes over you when you have no cares in the world. When you care, you can’t play. When you don’t care, you can’t help playing. Huizinga wrote,

“Play is free, is in fact freedom. Play is not ‘ordinary’ or ‘real’ life. It is rather a stepping out of ‘real’ life into a temporary sphere of activity with a disposition all of its own.”

Captain von Trapp was too overwhelmed to play or allow his children to play. He needed Fraulein Maria to burst into his ‘real’ world and reawaken him to the spirit of play. Maria was a God-sent. She saved Captain not only from his self-imposed shell of a man — she saved him from the spirit of marching that was overtaking Germany.

For Maria, play was as natural as breathing. She turned everything into a piece of cake. She turned drapes into children’s clothes, boredom into song, and enemies into friends. That’s what the von Trapp children lacked the most; that’s what they resented their father mostly for — for his refusal to play.

Maria may not have been an “asset to the abbey” because she â€œwaltzes on her way to Mass and whistles on the stairs,” but this was exactly what was lacking in the von Trapp’s household. Captain von Trapp’s soul was dead. He marched to the tune of grief, despair, and apathy and made his kids do the same.

And yet, there was an edelweiss still alive deep down in his soul. Maria’s natural playfulness reawakened the spirit of play in his heart, and the flower bloomed again. She gave him a gift of himself.

“In play there is something ‘at play’ which transcends the immediate needs of life and imparts meaning to the action. All play means something.” Homo Ludens

What did Maria’s play mean? It meant that there was something transcending the immediate needs of life — something beyond the world of care. Captain felt that “something” knocking back into his life. A Life from beyond life. He let down his guard and allowed the spirit of play in.

Why did he refuse to serve in the Royal Navy of the Third Reich? Because of his strong moral and ethical principles? Maybe. But it seems more likely that he didn’t want to march anymore. There was too much play in his soul to march to the Nazi’s tune. The time of seriousness was gone. He was full of life, song, and poetry again.

“[Play] lies beyond seriousness, on that more primitive and original level where the child, the animal, the savage, and the seer belong, in the region of dream, enchantment, ecstasy, laughter. To understand poetry we must be capable of donning the child’s soul like a magic cloak and of forsaking man’s wisdom for the child’s.” Homo Ludens