MyDoorsAreOpen
Bluelight Crew
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- Aug 20, 2003
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In my extensive contact with Chinese culture, fengshui (literally "wind water") is an idea and practice I've come across fairly frequently. In a nutshell, it's a set of urban planning, architectural, landscaping, and interior design rules for the alignment of city streets, buildings, walls, doors, windows, lamps, furniture, and the features of artificial landscapes according the cardinal directions, with the end goal of creating a harmony that maximizes quality of life for the people who live and work in that place. The literature on what exactly comprises and maintains this sought-after harmony can veer off into some pretty abstract philosophical conceits that sets off some people's mumbo jumbo meter in a similar way to a lot of postmodernism. I haven't gone too deep into the finer points of fengshui, especially in the classical chinese treatises on natural law and esoteric spirituality where the ideas have their roots, so I can't say either way.
I will say this, though. I am definitely open to the idea that there may be, relative to the place in question, an ideal way to align man-made structures according to the movement of the sun (and moon, to a much lesser degree) through the sky over the course of a day (and the year), to maximize the benefits of natural light and heat. I could see how this would be especially important in densely populated places like the Huang and Yangze River valleys in the olden days, where urban planning and rural terraforming were rather advanced, frugality was a must, winters were cold, and conserving fuel for light and heat was a grand idea.
Other ancient civilizations have left behind the ruins of buildings, cities, and walls that still happen to catch the sun's rays in certain ways that are unlikely to be accidental. As Western scholar of the occult and mystery schools Manley P. Hall has written about, it is the symbolism of occult practices and the initiation rites of mystical orders worldwide that provide the missing link between bowing down before god, bowing down before powerful people, and bowing down before the sun*. And regardless of how charitably (i.e. theistically) you choose to interpret this deep anthropological connection, there remains an indisputable point relevant to our discussion: The sun is the proximate source of all our energy, and is vital to our very existence. That the sun is mighty to the point of inspiring a healthy fear and awe would have been patently obvious to the citizens of any pre-industrial agricultural society. So why not align your structures in amity with the sun's whims? Why not make the sun as much your friend as possible?
It would be interesting to do a study comparing the perceived efficacy and importance of fengshui among locals in rural Chinese villages without electricity, versus ones with it, controlling for climate.
Religion wasn't once so disconnected from the daily practical realities of the secular world. The idea of natural law, of the universe running like a complex machine built and run by an unseen crew, or cycling through pathways like one complex living organism with a unitary purpose, was for the longest time a friendly and unguarded border between science and cosmology in all ancient civilizations with written language and an indigenous literary and intellectual tradition. I have heard it said that at the highest class levels of ancient civilizations, religion was what we'd probably today call philosophy, while at the lowest class levels, it's something we'd call folk superstition, while most folks would hold dear to something in between, depending on their station in life. This is striking to me, because it gets at what religion is really all about: reconnecting with something yearned for but perceived as lost, in order to regain wholeness. For upper class folks in the ancient world, this perceived lack probably involved spontaneity, meaningful striving for the things that really matter, and a connection to the land and the earth. The idle rich therefore plowed their ennui and world-weariness into heady ideas that they had the privilege of entertaining dispassionately. The peasantry, by contrast, acted out of an acutely felt lack of control over their fates. The spiritual beliefs that trickled down to them from the literati therefore inspired mostly begging, placating, brokering deals [i.e. magick, witchcraft] with the folks behind the curtain, and repetitive rituals to drive away the ever rising tide of worry.
In many places, the indigenous religious practices enshrined real solid wisdom regarding stewardship of the natural environment. In Bali, the shrines and the priests who maintained them were pumping stations and irrigation engineers, respectively. The Dutch did the island no ecological favors by attempting to stamp out the local Hindu-styled (but likely far older and mostly indigenous) local religion. Likelwise, rural villages in Japan have each maintained a satoyama for as long as anyone can remember, and the indigenous religion holds that the satoyama is a place where benevolent spirits frolic and convene, and it's by maintaining these gathering places that mankind maintains a balance, and a diplomatic buffer, between himself and nature. Interestingly enough, a satoyama is a huge community garden slash tree plantation on the south face of the hill closest to the village, with plants, grasses, and trees strategically arranged in descending order by height from north to south, and interspersed in a way that maximized mutual protection and soil enrichment between plant types. In smaller villages in choice farming areas, a well-kept and sustainably-harvested satoyama could render the citizens nearly self-sufficient in food and raw materials they'd need, at least until the next inevitable natural disaster.
It wouldn't surprise me if fengshui were part of China's contribution to this "practical religion" phenomenon, and as such might have something to it of value, even when divorced from China's indigenous supernatural beliefs.
Thoughts? Experiences?
I will say this, though. I am definitely open to the idea that there may be, relative to the place in question, an ideal way to align man-made structures according to the movement of the sun (and moon, to a much lesser degree) through the sky over the course of a day (and the year), to maximize the benefits of natural light and heat. I could see how this would be especially important in densely populated places like the Huang and Yangze River valleys in the olden days, where urban planning and rural terraforming were rather advanced, frugality was a must, winters were cold, and conserving fuel for light and heat was a grand idea.
Other ancient civilizations have left behind the ruins of buildings, cities, and walls that still happen to catch the sun's rays in certain ways that are unlikely to be accidental. As Western scholar of the occult and mystery schools Manley P. Hall has written about, it is the symbolism of occult practices and the initiation rites of mystical orders worldwide that provide the missing link between bowing down before god
It would be interesting to do a study comparing the perceived efficacy and importance of fengshui among locals in rural Chinese villages without electricity, versus ones with it, controlling for climate.
Religion wasn't once so disconnected from the daily practical realities of the secular world. The idea of natural law, of the universe running like a complex machine built and run by an unseen crew, or cycling through pathways like one complex living organism with a unitary purpose, was for the longest time a friendly and unguarded border between science and cosmology in all ancient civilizations with written language and an indigenous literary and intellectual tradition. I have heard it said that at the highest class levels of ancient civilizations, religion was what we'd probably today call philosophy, while at the lowest class levels, it's something we'd call folk superstition, while most folks would hold dear to something in between, depending on their station in life. This is striking to me, because it gets at what religion is really all about: reconnecting with something yearned for but perceived as lost, in order to regain wholeness. For upper class folks in the ancient world, this perceived lack probably involved spontaneity, meaningful striving for the things that really matter, and a connection to the land and the earth. The idle rich therefore plowed their ennui and world-weariness into heady ideas that they had the privilege of entertaining dispassionately. The peasantry, by contrast, acted out of an acutely felt lack of control over their fates. The spiritual beliefs that trickled down to them from the literati therefore inspired mostly begging, placating, brokering deals [i.e. magick, witchcraft] with the folks behind the curtain, and repetitive rituals to drive away the ever rising tide of worry.
In many places, the indigenous religious practices enshrined real solid wisdom regarding stewardship of the natural environment. In Bali, the shrines and the priests who maintained them were pumping stations and irrigation engineers, respectively. The Dutch did the island no ecological favors by attempting to stamp out the local Hindu-styled (but likely far older and mostly indigenous) local religion. Likelwise, rural villages in Japan have each maintained a satoyama for as long as anyone can remember, and the indigenous religion holds that the satoyama is a place where benevolent spirits frolic and convene, and it's by maintaining these gathering places that mankind maintains a balance, and a diplomatic buffer, between himself and nature. Interestingly enough, a satoyama is a huge community garden slash tree plantation on the south face of the hill closest to the village, with plants, grasses, and trees strategically arranged in descending order by height from north to south, and interspersed in a way that maximized mutual protection and soil enrichment between plant types. In smaller villages in choice farming areas, a well-kept and sustainably-harvested satoyama could render the citizens nearly self-sufficient in food and raw materials they'd need, at least until the next inevitable natural disaster.
It wouldn't surprise me if fengshui were part of China's contribution to this "practical religion" phenomenon, and as such might have something to it of value, even when divorced from China's indigenous supernatural beliefs.
Thoughts? Experiences?