Category: Owen Barfield

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How Can We Truly Know Anything?

How can we truly know anything? In Poetic Diction, Owen Barfield argues that meaning is not static. When a logician attempts to fix the meaning of a term, it is inevitably reduced.

Try to define the word “home,” and you are left with something that is no longer much of a home. Try to define your spouse, and before long, you no longer have a spouse.

The meaning of “home” is revealed only to the one who dwells in it poetically. The meaning of “spouse” is revealed only to the one who dwells with them poetically.

According to Barfield, meaning emerges when the poet — maker in Greek — through inspiration, stumbles upon a fresh metaphor that stirs and shifts human consciousness.

“The poet’s relation to terms is that of a maker.” — Poetic Diction

In other words, unless I look at my spouse and allow a fresh metaphor to strike me unexpectedly, I reduce her to less than she is. But if I find the metaphor — or rather, if the metaphor finds me — the meaning will be revealed as a felt change of consciousness.

Modern consciousness recognizes only static meaning because it is bound to a particular lens — the lens of non-participation. That is why the modern world has so little meaning: such a view is inherently reductive.

It assumes that meaning can be grasped by definition, captured within an affixed description, as though it existed independently of the one who perceives it.

But there is no such thing as fixed, static meaning. The Logos of a thing is revealed only in between — in the living relation between myself and the thing. Meaning arises as I participate in it — through inspired metaphor.

The word “meaning” itself has a curious etymology. It comes from the Old English mǣnan, which means “to intend” or “to signify.” Surprisingly, the noun mean (as in Golden Mean) comes from a related Old English term “gemǣne.” Both mǣnan and gemǣne trace back to one common Proto-Indo-European root: mei- / moi-, which means to bind, unite, exchange, have in common.

In other words, meaning arises within a certain means — within a medium, in the shared space, in-between. Signification is revealed only through participation.

Barfield quotes Aristotle:

“The making of metaphors is by far the most important; since this alone does not involve borrowing from somebody else and is [therefore] a mark of genius; for to make a good metaphor is to contemplate likeness.” — Poetic Diction

A good metaphor is inspiration itself — it comes directly from the Spirit revealing the Logos. True metaphor doesn’t borrow anything from anyone; through imagination it ascends directly to God and is granted the gift of Mercurial speech.

Then, it strikes us with a magical wand of sound and shifts our consciousness to contemplate True Likeness. At that point, we no longer need definitions — we know.

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Why Are Small Things Important?

Why are small things important? People are preoccupied with size. Somehow, we associate size with significance. When something is small, we don’t make much of it. When something is big, we can’t help but make much of it.

In George MacDonald’s Phantastes, a young man named Anodos meets a fairy. She says she wants to give him a gift, but she is so tiny that he asks:

“How can such a very little creature as you grant or refuse anything?”

The fairy replies:

“Is that all the philosophy you have gained in one-and-twenty years?” said she. “Form is much, but size is nothing.”

To prove her point, “she leapt from the desk upon the floor, where she stood a tall, gracious lady, with pale face and large blue eyes.”

“Now,” said she, “you will believe me.”

He did. But what happened? She grew in size.

He didn’t recognize her form, so she had to change her size. Form is about recognition — it is a matter of the heart. Size is about measurement — it is a matter of the mind.

When something appears to us, the heart perceives the form and recognizes what it represents. The mind immediately begins to measure and calculate—and often miscalculates.

What appears small may one day turn out immense. Size is nothing; form is all that matters. Why else would God Almighty take the form of a baby? So that He might be recognized in that form.

The calculating mind passes over such forms because of their small size. We tend to mistake size for significance. Yet what is truly vast — things of cosmic value — come hidden in the smallest forms.

Only the heart can recognize true significance. The mind is deceived by size. For example, what is more important: to play with your child or to meet with the President? To donate a million dollars to a good cause or to chat with your grandmother over the phone?

When people brought little children to Jesus, the disciples rebuked them. They confused size with significance. Yet, Jesus said:

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

On the cosmic scale, preaching to the crowds was less significant than playing with the kids.

Peter Sloterdijk, a German philosopher and cultural theorist, argues that civilization is shaped by small groups — small circles of friends.

Jesus and the Twelve, Buddha and his disciples, the Inklings, St. Francis and his band of brothers, Einstein, Marcel Grossmann, Max Planck, and Niels Bohr — the list goes on and on.

Everything big started small — among two or three people gathered together in the name of the Fire they had encountered.

If we want to see true magic, we must learn to recognize the significance of small things — and to question what the mind hastily labels as important. The things that truly transform are never loud, noticeable, or flashy.

Magic hides in plain sight. We miss it because the mind expects a spectacle. But true magic is never a spectacle. It is quiet and ordinary — like a child in a manger or a butterfly fluttering over dandelions in my backyard.

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What Happens When Fathers Grow Weary of Life?

What happens when fathers grow weary of life? They stop doing what fathers are supposed to do: bear witness to a child that life is good and worth living.

When fathers grow weary, they stop witnessing, and other narratives begin to take root and take over. There are only two types of narratives in the world: one says life is good and worth living, and the other is the narrative of fear.

When the first one stops, the other grows.

In The Silver Trumpet, Prince Courtesy loses his father’s gift, the magical Silver Trumpet. As a result, he loses his wife, and now he is losing his only daughter, Princess Lily — to a narrative of fear.

The wearier the father becomes, the larger this narrative of fear grows. It swells ever larger, like a toad, and eventually becomes an overarching reality that takes the life out of a child. She sees fear EVERYWHERE.

When we lose the father, fear always takes over. The archetypal role of the father is to shine bright.

The English father and the Germanic Vater are etymologically related to Jupiter. The Latin Iūpiter means “Father Jove.” The first part of the word — Iū — is derived from the Proto-Indo-European dyew, meaning “to shine” or “bright sky” (daylight), while piter is related to the Latin pater (father).

In mythological consciousness, a father is the one who shines brightly. A father is the light of your day. In Roman lore, Jove was seen as the source of joy and joviality. In French, the word eventually became jovial, meaning “full of cheer and joy.”

When fathers grow too weary to bear witness to the Light, darkness creeps in. In Owen Barfield’s tale, the evil Princess Gamboy begins to take over — not only Princess Lily’s heart but also the kingdom. Her narrative is fear, represented by a toad.

In Princess Lily’s heart, the light of the father is supplanted by the fear of the toad. As you read, you almost want to exclaim: Why does Prince Courtesy, the father, allow this narrative to continue? Why does he allow Gamboy to poison Lily’s mind?

He is no longer himself; he is no longer the Jupiter he once was. He has grown too weary of life to be a witness.

Darkness is always driven by a narrative of fear. This narrative is incessantly inflated — blown up like a toad — until it becomes an overarching reality in people’s minds. You cannot fight fear or resist it; it thrives on resistance.

There is only one thing it cannot tolerate: the narrative of love coming from the Bright Father.

Barfield writes of Princess Lily: “Oh, if only she had listened to nobody but her Father!” And she would have — if the father had continued to speak.

But he stopped, and Gamboy’s narrative began growing like a toad. How do you stop a narrative of fear?

Someone must recover the lost Silver Trumpet — the light of consciousness — for the narrative of fear to crumble. Someone must blow the Silver Trumpet.

When fathers lose their Silver Trumpet, the world is plunged into darkness. In the absence of Jupiter, the narrative of fear becomes too strong.

Who will find the Silver Trumpet?

The Second Prince.

In Barfield’s story, the Second Prince is the one who is “not deceived by appearances.” He represents the ultimate Christ-consciousness.

Watch our March 14, 2026, discussion of The Silver Trumpet here.