Transit Notes

BLESSINGS

2012-02-14T15:33:00.000-05:00

I recently heard someone speak rather derisively of people who express gratitude for their blessings. The thrust of the comment was that the very idea of "blessings" is an archaic, theological concept that has no place in the post-Enlightenment world.

While I have a wide tolerance for various theological points of view, I found myself somewhat puzzled by this comment because it seems to me that one can feel genuinely blessed and grateful without having a hardened position about the source of the blessings. Isn't life itself a blessing, life with all of its infinite possibilities? And what of the world of our inheritance—not the inevitable pain, frustration, and suffering—but love, beauty, music, art, the opportunity to become one of the co-creators of the world? Are not these abiding blessings? I believe they are, and I find that my heart sings in agreement when I read the following passage from John O'Donohue's fine essay, "To Retrieve the Lost Art of Blessing," which is found in O'Donohue's book, To Bless the Space Between Us.

There is a kindness that dwells deep down in things: it presides everywhere, often in the places we least expect. The world can be harsh and negative, but if we remain generous and patient, kindness inevitably reveals itself. Something deep in the human soul seems to depend on the presence of kindness; something instinctive in us expects it, and once we sense it we are able to trust and open ourselves . . .

Despite all the darkness, human hope is based on the instinct that at the deepest level of reality some intimate kindness holds sway. This is the heart of blessing. To believe in blessing is to believe that our being here, our very presence in the world, is itself the first gift, the primal blessing. As Rilke says: Heir zu sein ist so viel—to be here is immense. Nowhere does the silence of the infinite lean so intensely as around the form of a newly born infant. Once we arrive, we enter into the inheritance of everything that has preceded us; we become heirs to the world. To be born is to be chosen. To be created and come to birth is to be blessed. Some primal kindness chose us and brought us through the forest of dreaming until we could emerge into the clearance of individuality, with a path of life opening before us through the world.

The beginning often holds the clue to everything that follows. Given the nature of our beginning, it is no wonder that our hearts are imbued with longing for beauty, meaning, order, creativity, compassion, and love. We approach the world with this roster of longings and expect that in some way the world will respond and confirm our desire. Our longing knows it cannot force the fulfillment of its desire; yet it does instinctively expect that primal benevolence to respond to it. This is the threshold where blessing comes alive.

Einstein once suggested that the most important question a person can ask is whether the universe is a friendly place. The answer, I suppose, would probably vary from person to person, depending on whether one is an optimist, a pessimist, or a downright cynic. At the very least, however, I feel deeply that our lives enjoy the blessings of what John O'Donohue refers to as "primal kindness" or "primal benevolence." Each person is free, of course, to provide his or her own theological tag to that kindness and benevolence, but, as always, it's not the label of a thing, but rather its essence, that befriends the questing heart. We are the most improbable of creatures living on the most improbable of planets, and if we have nothing else, we always have the opportunity to transform ourselves and our world. That, for me, will always be a blessing worthy of my highest gratitude.

SMALL POEMS, BIG IDEAS

2012-01-30T14:25:00.000-05:00

Robert Frost famously wrote that "happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length." The same might also be said for poetry. In my view, some of the shortest poems have the deepest meanings.

Set forth below are a few of the small poems that are included in the poetry anthologies I've been reading this winter. If you have a favorite small poem and would like to include it in your comments, please feel free to do so.

THE RED WHEELBARROW
William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

THE SECRET SITS
Robert Frost

We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

   COMMENT
Dorothy Parker

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.

TODAY, LIKE EVERY OTHER DAY
Rumi

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

LOVING THE RITUALS
Palladus (4th Century A.D.)

Loving the rituals that keep men close,
Nature created means for friends apart;

pen, paper, ink, the alphabet,
signs for the distant and disconsolate heart.

   WITNESS
Denise Levertov

Sometimes the mountain
is hidden from me in veils
of cloud, sometimes
I am hidden from the mountain
in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,
when I forget or refuse to go
down to the shore or a few yards
up the road, on a clear day,
to reconfirm
that witnessing presence.

   AUTO MIRROR
Adam Zagajewski
(translation by Czelaw Milosz and Robert Hass)

In the rear-view mirror suddenly
I saw the bulk of the Beauvais Cathedral;
great things dwell in small ones
for a moment.

A LONG LIFETIME
Kenneth Rexroth

A long lifetime
Peoples and places
And the crisis of mankind—
What survives is the crystal—
Infinitely small—
Infinitely large—

MY FIFTIETH YEAR
William Butler Yeats

My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On a marble table-top.

While on the shop and the street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.

TRUE SELF AS NO SELF

2012-01-27T14:58:00.000-05:00

Chuang Tzu

Thomas Merton

As we can see from their apparel, both of these men were spiritual contemplatives. The first, Chuang Tzu, lived in China more than two thousand years ago and is considered to be the greatest Taoist writer whose existence can be verified (the existence of Lao Tzu, the presumed author of the Tao Te Ching, has not been verified). The second, Thomas Merton, was a 20th century Trappist monk who wrote extensively on matters of spirituality, comparative religion, and social justice.

In the later years of his life, Merton became increasingly ecumenical in his spiritual philosophy. During this period, he studied Chuang Tzu extensively, and he eventually published a book of poems—The Way of Chuang Tzu—which he regarded as interpretive readings of the classic works the Taoist master. Anticipating criticism from those Christians who are more exclusive than inclusive in their world view, Merton introduced the book by declaring:

If St. Augustine could read Plotinus, if St. Thomas could read Aristotle and Averroes (both of them certainly a long way further from Christianity than Chuang Tzu ever was!), and if Teilhard de Chardin could make copious use of Marx and Engels in his synthesis, I think I may be pardoned for consorting with a Chinese recluse who shares the climate and peace of my own kind of solitude, and who is my own kind of person.

Elsewhere in the introduction, Merton shows us why he related so much to Chuang Tzu:

[T]he whole teaching, the 'way' contained in these anecdotes, poems, and meditations, is characteristic of a certain mentality found everywhere in the world, a certain taste for simplicity, for humility, self-effacement, silence, and in general a refusal to take seriously the aggressivity, the ambition, the push, and the self-importance which one must display in order to get along in society. This other is a 'way' that prefers not to get anywhere in the world, or even in the field of some supposed spiritual attainment.

One of Merton's interpretive poems—titled The Man of the Tao—is set forth below. I've chosen this poem because it seems to incorporate two spiritual themes that are woven deeply into both eastern and western spiritual traditions. The first theme, which is embodied in the title of this post, is that the conditioned, egotistical self is a false self that must ultimately be put aside if we are to become—and fully experience—our authentic selves. The second theme, which to some extent is premised on the first, is that we must be wary of spiritual hubris. According to Merton's interpretation of Chuang Tzu, the truly spiritual person "does not take pride in himself [or herself] on walking alone." Nor does he or she judge those who "follow the crowd."

THE MAN OF TAO

The man in whom Tao

Acts without impediment

Harms no other being

By his actions

Yet he does not know himself

To be "kind," to be "gentle."

The man in whom Tao

Acts without impediment

Does not bother with his own interests

And does not despise

Others who do.

He does not struggle to make money

And does not make a virtue of poverty.

He goes his way

Without relying on others

And does not pride himself

On walking alone.

While he does not follow the crowd

He won't complain of those who do.

Rank and reward

Make no appeal to him;

Disgrace and shame

Do not deter him.

He is not always looking

For right and wrong

Always deciding "Yes" or "no."

The ancients said, therefore:

"The man of Tao

Remains unknown

Perfect Virtue

Produces nothing

'No-self'

Is 'True-Self.'

And the greatest man

Is Nobody."

Merton worked tirelessly to bridge the spiritual traditions that often separate peoples and cultures. He died as a committed Christian monk, but he is remembered as someone whose ideals transcended his own personal identity. Speaking at Merton's funeral, the Dalai Lama said, "I always consider myself as one of his Buddhist brothers." In a similar vein, the great Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh has said that Merton was "an artist, a Zen."

MEDITATIONS ON NATURE (II): THOREAU

2012-01-24T20:07:00.000-05:00

Black-Crowned Night Heron

I love nature partly because she is not man, but a retreat from him. None of his institutions control or pervade her. There a different kind of right prevails. In her midst I can be glad with an entire gladness. If this world was all man I could not stretch myself—I should lose all hope. He is constraint; she is freedom to me. He makes me wish for another world; she makes me content with this.

Thoreau's Journal (January 3, 1853)

Great White Egret

There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of Nature and has his senses still.

Thoreau, Walden

Great Blue Heron

We must go out and re-ally ourselves to Nature every day. We must take root, send out some little fibre at least, even every winter day. I am sensible that I am imbibing health when I open my mouth to the wind.

Thoreau, Journal (December 29, 1856)

White Ibis

How important is a constant intercourse with nature and the contemplation of natural phenomenon to the preservation of moral & and intellectual health.

Thoreau's Journal (May 6, 1851)

Black-Crowned Night Heron (Immature)

We need the tonic of wildness—to wade sometimes in marshes where bittern and meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.

Thoreau, Walden

Brown Pelican

For my part, I feel, that with regard to Nature, I live a sort of border life, on the confines of the world, into which I make occasional and transient forays only, and my patriotism and allegiance to the state into whose territories I seem to retreat are those of a moss-trooper. Unto a life which I call natural I would gladly follow even a will o' the wisp through the bogs and sloughs unimaginable.

Thoreau, "Walking" in Excursions

Snowy Egret

I have a room all to myself; it is Nature.

Thoreau's Journal (January 3, 1853)

Black-Crowned Night Heron

The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow I have clutched.

Thoreau, Walden

TO LOVE DIFFERENTLY

2012-01-20T13:12:00.000-05:00

A Pair of Lovers, by Van Gogh

Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence.
Eric Fromm

This posting has its genesis in a fine poem—To Have Without Holding—by poet and novelist Marge Piercy. Since reading the poem a few days ago, I have continued to be haunted by the first line: "Learning to love differently is hard."

From my perspective, this poem touches upon something profound, specifically, the way that life experiences shape our evolving approaches to love. One of the charming conceits of youth is the romantic ideal that each of us will eventually meet someone and "fall" effortlessly into a state of perennial bliss—a sort of nirvana in which the relationship is protected from the vicissitudes of life. Romantic ideals, however, always have a way of colliding with reality, and when that occurs, we usually have only two choices. We can either become disappointed and cynical, or we can begin to reevaluate and reshape our romantic ideals. We can, as Piercy suggests in the first line of her poem, learn to "love differently." We can even learn to "love with the doors banging on their hinges, the cupboard unlocked, the wind roaring and whimpering in the rooms . . ." And if we do, if we are willing to give up the clutch-hold on our youthful romantic ideals, we may come to find the very thing we have been looking for all along, a deep love that is rich and enduring, one that is more than adequate to withstand the conflicts, disappointments, and frustrations that await every journey.

Enough of what I think. What do you think? Perhaps you will find something in Piercy's poem that resonates with your own life.

TO HAVE WITHOUT HOLDING

by Marge Piercy

Learning to love differently is hard,

love with the hands wide open, love

with the doors banging on their hinges,

the cupboard unlocked, the wind

roaring and whimpering in the rooms

rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds

that thwack like rubber bands

in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open

stretching the muscles that feel

as if they are made of wet plaster,

then of blunt knives, then

of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes

of grab, of clutch; to love and let

go again and again. It pesters to remember

the lover who is not in the bed,

to hold back what is owed to the work

that gutters like a candle in a cave

without air, to love consciously,

conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can't do it, you say it's killing

me, but you thrive, you glow

on the street like a neon raspberry,

you float and sail, a helium balloon

bright bachelor's button blue and bobbing

on the cold and hot winds of our breath,

as we make and unmake in passionate

diastole and systole the rhythm

of our unbound bonding, to have

and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger

and anger moment by moment balanced.

Lest there be any doubt, I do not stand pure in this arena. Quixotically, I have broken many lances in the windmills of youthful romantic ideals. With every passing year, however, I have tried to reshape those ideals to account for the unpredictability of human life—my life and the lives of others—and while much work remains to be done, I feel, perhaps for the first time in many decades, that I am learning "to love and let go again and again." I am learning to love differently.

WHY POETRY?

2012-01-16T22:35:00.000-05:00

It is difficult to get the news from poems,

yet men die miserably every day for the lack of what is found there.

William Carlos Williams

One of the great joys of blogging is the opportunity to interact with other people who love poetry, many of whom are poets themselves. It's a social pleasure that I rarely encounter in my day-to-day life offline. Perhaps it's an unjustifiable cultural bias of mine, but most of my fellow Americans seem to head for the exits at the mere mention of poetry.

Thanks to an extraordinary teacher I had in high school, poetry has been a constant companion of mine for more than five decades. When I have felt friendless and alone, poetry has offered its friendship and reminded me that I am not the first to undertake this uncertain voyage; nor shall I be the last. When I have felt bewildered and lost, poetry has provided a bright lodestar against which I could take my bearings and find my way. And when I have found myself stymied over the inability to understand the true essence of love—this pervasive ideal that seems impossible to define with any precision—poetry has always revealed something so beautiful, so simple and unexpected, that I could say at last, "yes, this is what love feels like."

I'm digressing a bit here, for the main point of this post is to share some wonderful observations I have come across recently about the unique importance of poetry in our lives. The first quote comes from V.V. Raman, who is a theoretical physicist, rather than a poet himself. All of the other quotes are from former poets laureate of the United States, and are found in The Poets Laureate Anthology (2010).

V.V. Raman

(From Interview with Krista Tippett in Einstein's God)

[P]oetry is what gives meaning to existence. Not fact and figures and charts, but poetry. Poetry is essentially a really sophisticated way of experiencing the world. And it is much more than mere words and stories. Poetry is to the human condition what the telescope and the microscope are to the scientist.

W.S. Merwin

Prose is about something, but poetry is about what can't be said. Why do people turn to poetry when all of a sudden the Twin Towers get hit, or when their marriage breaks up, or when the person they love most in the world drops dead in the same room? Because they can't say it. They can't say it at all, and they want something that addresses what can't be said.

Kay Ryan

It's poetry's uselessness that excites me . . . Prose is practical language. Conversation is practical language. Let them handle the usefulness jobs. But of course, poetry has its balms. It makes us feel less lonely by one. It makes us have more room inside ourselves.

Billy Collins

Time is not just money—sorry, Ben Franklin—time is a way of telling us if we are moving at the right pace through the life that has been given us. One of the most basic pleasures of poetry is the way it slows us down. The intentionality of its language gives us pause. Its formal arrangement checks our haste.

Stanley Kunitz

If we want to know what it felt like to be alive at any given moment in the long odyssey of the race, it is to poetry we must turn. The moment is dear to us, precisely because it is so fugitive, and it is somewhat of a paradox that poets should spend a lifetime hunting for the magic that will make the moment stay. Art is the chalice into which we pour the wine of transcendence. What is imagination but a reflection of our yearning to belong to eternity as well as to time.

Robert Fitzgerald

Our lifetimes have seen the opening of abysses before which the mind quails. But it seems to me there are few things everyone can humbly try to hold onto: love and mercy (and humor) in everyday living; the quest for exact truth in language and affairs of the intellect; self-recollection or prayer; and the peace, the composed energy of art.

Photos: Photo of V.V. Raman downloaded from Wikipedia. All other photos were downloaded from the website of the Poet Laureates of the United States.

MYSTERY AND WONDER

2012-01-11T14:01:00.000-05:00

We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.

Annie Dillard

Driven by a desire to be completely liberated from the cultural provincialism of the American south, where I was born and spent my early years, I have dedicated much of my life to the pursuit of knowledge. Seldom, if ever, have I questioned the metaphorical truth of Shakespeare's observation in Henry VI that "ignorance is the curse of God, knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven . . . "

Now, however, as I approach the end of my seventh decade, I'm less inclined to see ignorance and knowledge as some kind of binary choice. Ignorance and knowledge can only be intelligently discussed in relative terms, and they usually walk hand in hand throughout our lives. Regardless of one's level of education, what one knows is always dwarfed by what one does not know. Our most profound questions always seem hydra-headed; slay one and two more will arise in its place. Perhaps Plato's observation still holds true: "The learning and knowledge that we have, is, at the most, but little compared with that of which we are ignorant."

And consider this: In his recent book—The 4% Universe: Dark Matter, Dark Energy, and the Race to Discover the Rest of Reality—science historian and writer Richard Panek states that only four percent of the universe consists of matter that makes up you, me, the earth, the stars, the planets, and the galaxies, everything within the ambit of our current knowledge. The remaining ninety-six percent, referred to by cosmologists as dark matter and dark energy, is unknown. What's even more stunning, many of the world's most prominent scientists believe that it will continue to remain unknown.

In short—with all of our scientific advancements, with all of our technological discoveries, with all of our penetrations into the worlds of quantum physics—we know only a small fraction of the universe in which we spin our lives. What we know is wrapped in the larger mystery of what we do not know and may never know.

Set forth below are some interesting observations on the the subject of learning and knowledge on the one hand, versus mystery and wonder on the other. I have punctuated these quotes with abstract photos in which I have attempted to capture at least a hint of some of the mystery of which I speak. With the exception of the header photo, all of these images were created by panning my camera at slow shutter speeds across man-made lights against dark backgrounds. Limited light against a background of infinite darkness seems to be an appropriate metaphor for our place in this mysterious universe.

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.

Anais Nin

Until we accept the fact that life itself is founded in mystery, we shall learn nothing.

Henry Miller

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.

Charles Dickens

A day spent without the sight or sound of beauty, the contemplation of mystery, or the search of truth or perfection, is a poverty-stricken day; and a succession of such days if fatal to human life.

Lewis Mumford

Mystery is a resource, like coal or gold, and its preservation if a fine thing.

Tom Cahill

I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are and does not leave us where it found us.

Anne Lamott

Any genuine philosophy leads to action and from action back again to wonder, to the enduring fact of mystery.

Henry Miller

The approach of a man's life out of the past is history, and the approach of time out of the future is mystery. Their meeting is the present, and it is consciousness, the only time life is alive. The endless wonder of this meeting is what causes the mind, in its inward liberty of a frozen morning, to turn back and question and remember. The world is full of places. Why is it that I am here?

Wendell Berry

The fairest thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. He who knows it not and can no longer wonder, no longer feel amazement, is as good as dead.

Albert Einstein

God does not die on the day when we cease to believe in a personal deity, but we die on the day when our lives cease to be illumined by the steady radiance, renewed daily, of a wonder, the source of which is beyond all reason.

Dag Hammarskjold

The final mystery is oneself.
Oscar Wilde

AMOR FATI: LOVING ONE'S FATE

2012-01-07T15:57:00.001-05:00

Amor Fati—"Love Your Fate," which is in fact your life.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Nietzsche was the one who did the job for me. At a certain moment in his life, the idea came to him of what he called 'the love of your fate.' Whatever your fate is, whatever the hell happens, you say, 'This is what I need.' It may look like a wreck, but go at it as though it were an opportunity, a challenge. If you bring love to that moment—not discouragement—you will find the strength is there. Any disaster you can survive is an improvement in your character, your stature, and your life. What a privilege! This is when the spontaneity of your own nature will have chance to flow.

Then, when looking back at your life, you will see that the moments which seemed to be great failures followed by wreckage were the incidents that shaped the life you have now. You'll see that this is really true. Nothing can happen to you that is not positive. Even though it looks and feels at the moment like a negative crisis, it is not. The crisis throws you back, and when you are required to exhibit strength, it comes.

Joseph Campbell

In every life, some things can and should be changed, while other things cannot or should not be changed. It's also true that, with every passing year, the second category grows larger, while the first grows smaller. Increasingly, therefore, we must choose the way we respond to things that cannot or should not be changed—things that may be classified as our "fate." Typically, we resist our fate, all to no good end, but Nietzsche and Campbell remind us that we always have a better alternative. We can not only accept our fate, but actually come to love it—to embrace it without judgment, to regard it as foundational to the unfolding of our unique lives. We can become "yes-sayers," as Nietzsche said, people who say yes to everything in life that cannot be changed for the better. It's a great approach, I think, to what scientist and writer Jon Kabat-Zinn has called "full catastrophe living."

THE THING IS

Ellen Bass

To love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you've held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs:

when grief weights you like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face,
between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again.

AMOR FATI

LOVE YOUR FATE

MEASURES OF HAPPINESS

2012-01-01T07:34:00.000-05:00

Let me begin my first post of the new year by declaring that this is happiness for me: a wet dog, bathed in the golden light of a late December sun, breaking through the surf and calling upon me to forget myself and return to the world of divine play. This is where life takes place, she says, here in this moment, this tide, this light, this chance to fall in love with everything once again. There is still an adventurous child in me—a small core that has not yet fallen prey to cynicism—and my wet dog understands this completely.

What is this thing we call "happiness," this elusive mental state that we wish for ourselves and one another on the first day of every year? Most of us can say what happiness is not—and it's seldom what we imagined in our youth—but we still have great difficulty getting a fix on what it is. We are in good company, of course, for the great poets and philosophers have always reminded us that happiness can never be easily defined. It is unpredictable, elusive, fleeting in nature—and therein may lie its charm, for if one could find happiness and possess it at will, it would probably lose its essential quality of being happiness. Perhaps Thoreau said it best:

Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.

While reading some new poetry anthologies during the past few days, I have come across three poems in which happiness has been discovered in unexpected places—which, as many of us have learned, is where it is usually found. In So Much Happiness, Naomi Shihab Nye reminds us that "happiness floats," that it "doesn't need anything," and that virtually everything "could wake up filled with possibilities." In Orkney / This Life, Andrew Greig tells us that happiness can only be found in the present reality of this life. "This is where I want to live," declares Greig, "close to where the heart gives out, ruined, perfected . . ." Finally, in a poem titled Happiness, Raymond Carver recalls the unexpected pleasure of simply watching two paper delivery boys on their morning rounds, an experience that left him with a profound sense that happiness is a fleeting moment of such beauty that "death and ambition, even love," are irrelevant.

Read and enjoy! There is no better gateway to the new year—or maybe even happiness—than poetry.

SO MUCH HAPPINESS

Naomi Shihab Nye

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to
pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs
of change.

But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records . . .

Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way be known.

ORKNEY / THIS LIFE
Andrew Greig

It is big sky and its changes,
the sea all round and the waters within.
It is the way sea and sky
work off each other constantly,
like people meeting in Alfred Street,
each face coming away with a hint
of the other's face pressed in it.
It is the way a week-long gale
ends and folk emerge to hear
a single bird cry way high up.

It is the way you lean to me
and the way I lean to you, as if
we are each other's prevailing;
how we connect along our shores,
the way we are tidal islands
joined for hours then inaccessible,
I'll go for that, and smile when I
pick sand off myself in the shower.
The way I am an island loch to you
when a clatter of white whoops and rises . . .

It is the way Scotland looks to the South,
the way we enter friends' houses
to leave what we came with, or flick
the kettle's switch and wait.
This is where I want to live,
close to where the heart gives out,
ruined, perfected, an empty arch against the sky
where birds fly through instead of prayers
while in Hoy Sound the ferry's engines thrum
this life this life this life.

Happiness
Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.

I'm near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,

and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take

each other's arm.

It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

"Everything," says Naomi Shihab Nye, can "wake up filled with possibilities of coffee cake and ripe peaches, and love even the floor which needs to be swept . . . " That would include both me and my wet dog, the Zen master, especially on this New Year's Day. What a wonderful year it's going to be!

Happy New Year to Everyone!

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

2011-12-20T21:53:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas to all of my great friends in the blogging community! Your names are too numerous to mention individually, but you know who you are. Throughout this year, you have lifted my spirits and enriched my life with your words, your images, your ideas, and your creativity. Staying connected with you has been nothing less that soul-work for me, and I am deeply grateful for your stabilizing presence is a world that often seems to be imploding.

I extend my heartfelt wishes that you and your families will find great love, peace, and joy during the holiday season. May you reap the abundant treasures envisioned by John O'Donohue in his fine blessing, For Equilibrium:

Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore,

May the relief of laughter rinse through your soul.

As the wind loves to call things to dance,

May your gravity be lightened by grace.

Like the dignity of moonlight restoring the earth,

May your thoughts incline with reverence and respect.

As water takes whatever shape it is in,

So free may you be about who you become.

As silence smiles on the other side of what's said,

May your sense of irony bring perspective.

As time remains free of all that it frames,

May your mind stay clear of all it names.

May your prayer of listening deepen enough

To hear in the depths the laughter of God.

PEACE AND JOY,

HERE AND NOW!

MEDITATIONS ON NATURE

2011-12-15T16:21:00.000-05:00

If there is one thing clear about the centuries dominated by the factory and the wheel, it is that although the machine can make anything from a spoon to a landing-craft, a natural joy in earthly living is something it never has and never will be able to manufacture.

Henry Beston

Nature uses only the longest threads to weave her patterns, so that each small piece of the fabric reveals the organization of the entire tapestry.

Richard Feynman

Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

What would the world be, once bereft

Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,

O let them be left, wildness and wet;

Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life.

Rachel Carson

Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.

John Muir

Only spread a fern-frond over a man's head and worldly cares are cast out, and freedom and beauty and peace come in.

John Muir

There is in all visible things an invisible fecundity, a dimmed light, a meek namelessness, a hidden wholeness. This mysterious unity and integrity is wisdom, the mother of all . . . There is in all things an inexhaustible sweetness and purity, a silence that is a fountain of action and joy. It rises up in wordless gentleness, and flows out to me from the unseen roots of all created being.

Thomas Merton

Look! Look! Look deep into nature and you will understand everything.

Albert Einstein

I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.

E.B. White

The earth laughs in flowers.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I begin to see an object when I cease to understand it.

Henry David Thoreau

Wisdom begins in wonder.

Socrates

i thank You God for this most amazing

day: for the leaping greenly spirit of trees

and a blue dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

e.e. cummings

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

Lao Tzu

The world will never starve for wonder, but only for want of wonder.

C.K. Chesterton

After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on—have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear—what remains? Nature remains.

Walt Whitman

Notes on Photos: All photos were taken in the last couple of days here in coastal South Carolina.

MUSIC AS A THIN PLACE

2011-12-05T10:05:00.000-05:00

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Johann Nepomuk della Croce

Lately, I have been thinking a great deal about "thin places," a concept which has its roots in Celtic spirituality. According to my understanding, "thin places" are those places where the boundary between the material world and the divine realm becomes so thin, so porous and permeable, that we can experience the total fullness of reality. A thin place can be a geographical place, of course, but it can also be a poem, a person, a work of art, a piece of music, an experience with nature—any situation that lifts the veil, dissolves our preconceptions, and offers a glimpse, if only fleetingly, of the divine mystery of the non-material world.

While reading What I Believe, by the iconoclastic Swiss theologian Hans Kung, I came across a passage that speaks eloquently, I think, of the thin places created by certain music. Mozart is the focus of Kung's musical passion, but what he says strikes me as relevant to other types of music, indeed any music that opens one's eyes to the formless reality beyond the intellectual forms (preconceptions, e.g.) that permeate our thinking. While I can find thin places in certain classical music, I can also find them in other types of music.

So on with the quote. Here is Hans Kung speaking of his experience with the music of Mozart:

Sometimes when studying or relaxing, I open myself to the music, let it flow into me, and abandon myself completely to it, not only with the intelligence of the head, which is necessary for scholarship, but with the intelligence of the heart which binds, integrates, communicates totality.

It is this experience that draws me back to this music time and again. If I am listening to Mozarts' music utterly and intensely, without outside disturbances, alone at home or sometimes at a concert, my eyes close and I suddenly feel that the body of sound is no longer outside me but part of my being. It is the music that now embraces me, permeates me and resounds from within. What has happened? I sense that I am wholly turned inwards with eyes and ears, body and spirit: the I is silent and everything external, any subject—object split, ceases to exist. The music is no longer outside me but is what embraces me, permeates me, brings me happiness from within, fulfills me completely. The phrase that occurs to me is: 'In it we live and move and have our being.'

This is a saying from the New Testament, from the apostle Paul's speech on the Areopagus in Athens, where he speaks of seeking and finding God, who is not remote from any of us, in whom we live and move and are . . . Truly more than any other music, with its sensual-nonsensual beauty, power and clarity Mozart's music seems to show how fine and narrow the boundary is between music, the most unobjective of all the arts, and religion, which has always especially had to do with music. Both, though different, point to the ultimately unspeakable, to the mystery. And though music must not become a religion of art, the art of music is the most spiritual of all symbols for that 'mystical sanctuary of our religion,' of which Mozart once spoke, the divine itself.

The conclusion is that Mozart's music is not proof of God but even more not a pointer to pessimism and nihilism. On the contrary, sensitive listeners will sometimes find themselves opening up, in that reasonable trust which transcends reason. With this fine hearing they may then perceive a wholly Other in the pure, utterly internalized sound, say, of the adagio of the clarinet concerto; the sound of the beautiful in its infinity, indeed the sound of the infinite that transcends us and for which 'beautiful' is not a word. So music is a 'tuning in' to a higher harmony.

Six words literally jump out of this last paragraph for me—"that reasonable trust which transcends reason." Thin places, including music which dissolves the boundaries of thought, are good places to find that trust.

SANCTUARY AND BOOKS

2011-11-13T16:39:00.001-05:00

Inspired by recent postings of several other bloggers, including my friend, Ruth, author of Synch-ro-ni-zing, I have decided to pull back the curtain on the study in which I read, write, and ponder questions that will never be answered. In the spirit of full disclosure, however, I must confess that that these photos—taken on the morning of my departure for a few months in South Carolina— suggest a level of neatness that is rarely found in my little sanctuary. On most days, the study is cluttered with books on the floor, mail and periodicals on the desk, an myriad other items that a more organized person would have disposed of promptly and properly (e.g., abandoned coffee cups, opened maps, computer cables I don't understand, and shoes taken off the night before).

My study (header photo) is a converted bedroom that is furnished with a few of my paintings, a photo of my first yellow lab ("Baci"), three bookcases, and the desk and credenza that are holdovers from my days of practicing law.

Other than books, furniture, and computer equipment, I do not keep many objects in my study. On these bookshelves, however, you can see a few objects that I value for spiritual reasons. On the middle shelf is a hand-thrown begging bowl (made by a potter friend), which is a daily reminder of how little one actually needs to live; a scallop shell (symbol of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela), which is a reminder that every day and every step is part of a pilrimage; and small carved statue of Buddha, which is a reminder that I can always choose peace.

Beneath the shelves is a beautiful stone with a single word carved into its center: "Create." Few words in my vocabulary hold as much power and possibility as this word.

I have finally abandoned the the idea that I can retain all of my favorite books in my house. Many are in storage and I am finally becoming more comfortable with the idea of donating books to the local library unless there is some reason for not doing so. What remains in my study are those volumes which invite me to return to their pages frequently—poetry, a few favorite novels, art books, travel books, and a variety of books relating to philosophy, theology, and ancient wisdom traditions.

For the most part, my books are not organized according to author, subject matter, or any other standard. On this shelf, however, are treasured volumes of two of my favorite authors, Henry Miller and Thomas Merton. This is the default shelf when I find myself teetering toward despair. Any volume on this shelf is likely to clear my vision and lift my spirits.

As you can see from this shelf, my reading habits are very eclectic. Lots of books on religious and spiritual traditions—Buddhism, Zen, Taoism, Hinduism, and the origins of Christianity. I see some volumes by Wendell Berry, Annie Dillard, and Annie Lamott, all of whom I admire. Others on this shelf are are Krishnamurti, Dante, Emerson, and the poet Stanley Kunitz. Just in front of the small replica of a bicycle I once owned is my tattered but treasured copy of the great Kazantzakis novel, Zorba the Greek.

This shelf has a bit of almost everything—more Henry Miller, an anthology of the poetry of Jorge Luis Borges, several volumes on yoga, a two-volume anthology of American poetry, the collected works of Yeats, more works by Wendell Berry, a selection Nietzsche's works, and several books on the art of writing. I also see my copy of Jon Kabat-Zinn's fine book, Full Catastrophe Living. I'm especially fond of this title because it reminds me of one of the main reasons I have always loved books: They prepare us for the full measure of life, including all of the catastrophes that will be encountered by each of us.

I'm hopelessly addicted to travel books and travel essays, some of which are found on the top shelf here. I also see a favorite book by Ken Wilber, a compassionate philosopher whom I greatly admire; several works by Rilke, including Letters to a Young Poet, a small volume which I read at least once every year; and one of my books by Karen Armstrong, a contemporary theologian who has written a number of fine books, including a biography of Buddha.

Looking closer at the bookshelves in the second photo of this post, one can see that I have a rather insatiable interest in various wisdom traditions. Underpinning this interest is a lifelong desire to understand the common threads that are found in all of these traditions.

On this shelf is a novel, The Sea, by John Banville, a fine Irish novelist whom I have only discovered in the past few years. There is also a copy of Crossing to Safety, a novel by the late Wallace Stegner, whose work I also greatly admire. Between these novels are several spiritual books, including the Tao Te Ching and more Krishnamurti. I also see a couple of French books—additional evidence of my being an unabashed Francophile.

For what I consider to be enlightened discussions of Christianity, I usually turn to iconoclasts such as some of those represented on this shelf—Paul Tillich, Meister Eckhart, and John Shelby Spong. I also greatly admire the work of Eckhart Tolle, who, like Aldus Huxley in The Perennial Philosophy, has done much to elucidate the core principles that underpin all of the great religions and spiritual traditions. I'm especially fond of Eckhart Tolle's book, A New Earth.

Some of my Alan Watts books are found on this shelf. The writings of Watts were instrumental in introducing me to Zen several decades ago. Also found on this shelf are several different translations of the meditations of Marcus Aurelius, as well as a volume of the Upanishads and some additional works by Krishnamurti.

Well, there you have it—a few glimpses into my sanctuary, one of the places where I can usually find refuge from the outside world and passage into the interior realm. For those who might have the inclination, I would recommend this little exercise, not only because it is always interesting to see the contents of other people's bookshelves, but also because one can discover so much about oneself my simply looking at the favorite books of one's life. A bookshelf is a better mirror of oneself that a piece of glass.

MUSINGS AT A TRAIN STATION

2011-09-16T10:39:00.001-04:00

On an overcast Sunday morning several weeks ago, I found myself in the Carlisle, UK railway station, with two hours to spare before the arrival of the train that would take me to London. Having just completed my walk of the Hadrian's Wall path, I was still hungry for the incomparable beauty of the English countryside. Inside the terminal, however, everything appeared to be hard-edged, gray, and lifeless. The details of individual features seemed to be lost in the sheer vastness of the place.

While these were my initial impressions, I abandoned them immediately because I have learned through the years that we limit our perspective when we confine ourselves to beauty that is obvious. Whatever the circumstances, there is always another kind of beauty that is calling us. Its a shy beauty, one that hides from plain sight, one that needs to be seduced. This is the beauty that attracts painters and photographers. Like snake charmers, we want to coax beauty out of the shadows, make it visible, let it speak — perhaps even sing — in its own inimitable voice.

Thus motivated, I set out to see if I could find anything of visual interest in the train terminal. My goal was to find compositions in which something interesting was happening in the dance of light and line, color and texture, shape and shadow. Camera in hand, I simply asked the terminal to speak to me, either loudly or in whispers.

My first shot was beneath the crosswalk that towered above the tracks. I loved the geometrical aspects of this view, the contrast between the intense colors and the neutral stone walls, and the continuity of the blues from the crosswalk's ceiling to the doors and stair rails.

After walking to the other side of the tracks, I took this shot because I loved the juxtaposition of colors and lines — the red bench in contrast with the backdrop of greens (placing complementary colors next to one another always creates intensity) and the diagonal lines of the ramp rail in contrast with the vertical and horizontal lines that otherwise dominate the composition.

This composition appealed to me for several reasons. First, it has two situations (luggage carts and the row of columns on stairs) in which there are repetitions of form, which always help to establish unity in any composition. Second, the intensity of the colors in the door and the stairs offers an interesting contrast with the neutral grays of the remainder of the composition.

The reflections in this window to a small cafe also caught my interest. They seem to create a triptych, with the lower third being somewhat whimsical, the middle third revealing an mysterious interior, and the top third revealing the complex geometrical lines of the terminal roof.

Turning back toward the tracks and looking upward, I found myself entertained by the abstract designs of the steel and glass work in the train station's roof.

I found the above composition to be interesting because it was asymmetrical but balanced, and the three primary colors screamed with intensity against the background of the neutral walls and walkway. The question that remained, however, was whether the photo would be improved by eliminating the yellow cone and thereby simplifying the composition. That photo is below, and I think I like it a little better. There is something to be said, however, for finding three, intense primary colors against a neutral background.

Finally, before boarding my train, I took this little abstract (below) from the face of some kind of industrial storage locker. I liked the texture, the dominance of the turquoise blue, and the radiance that is often exuded from things that have been in use for a long time.

That's it. Nothing more than a few musings about photography — a passion of mine — as I remember waiting in the Carlisle railway station for my train to London.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

WALKING THE HADRIAN'S WALL PATH: THE FINAL TWO DAYS

2011-09-10T15:28:00.003-04:00

Robert, Dominic, and I celebrated the end of the fifth day of the walk with a fine dinner at the local pub in Newtown. As planned, Dominic returned home later that evening, and Robert and I left the following morning for Carlisle, where Robert would catch his train home and I would spend the night before the final day's walk to Bowness-on-Solway.

Between Newtown and Bowness-on-Solway, there is little remaining evidence of Hadrian's Wall, though one occasionally sees the vallum and ditch that once flanked the southern and northern edges of the wall, respectively. One hardly misses the Roman stoneworks, however, for this section of the walk has its own charms — woodland paths, wildflowers, quaint cottages, and a delightful stroll along the River Eden before reaching the interesting town of Carlisle. It was a fitting time to reflect upon what a wonderful trip this had been.

Day 6: Newtown to Carlisle

Woodlands Path

Cottage Along the Path

Robert

Through a Field

Knapweed and Yarrow (I think) Between the Path and the River Eden

Taking a Break

Named "Linstock Cottage," this working farm is an
extension of the fortified remains of Linstock Castle.

Path Shared With Cycleway Near Carlisle

Carlisle Town Center and Market Hall

An Fascinating Exhibit On Walls That Divide and Separate Us

After Robert's train departed from Carlisle in the afternoon, I went to the Tullie House and Museum and saw an exhibit on walls that have been constructed throughout the world to divide and separate populations. I wanted to see the exhibit because it was a fitting reminder that, in many respects, we are still approaching our problems as Hadrian did when he ordered the construction of the Roman wall in the early 2nd century.

Tullie House and Museum

The walls exhibit consisted of a series of concrete walls, each of which had a large fissure revealing a montage of relevant photographs. On the concrete walls themselves, above and below the fissures, there were reproductions of some of the graffiti that has been discovered on the partitions in various countries. I took photos of a few sections of the exhibit, and I will let the photos speak for themselves here. Personally, I found the exhibit to be very moving. (Clicking on the center of the photos below provides enlargements which permit some of the smaller writing to be read.)

Day 7: Carlisle to Bowness-on-Solway

The final fifteen mile walk from Carlisle to Bowness-on-Solway began along the River Eden and passed through several charming villages before reaching the Firth of Solway. Among the charms of the day were a couple of interesting churches, one of which has great historical significance.

Leaving Carlisle

Bridge Across the River Eden

A Woodland Path

Along the River Eden Again

St. Mary's Church in Beaumont
(constructed in the 13th century
on the site of a turret on Hadrian's Wall,
using stones taken from the wall)

St. Michael's Church in Burgh-by-Sands

St. Michael's Church, which was also constructed in the 13th century with stones from Hadrian's Wall, is located in the center of a five-acre area that was once the site of the Roman Fort, Aballava. The church has additional, historical significance because the body of King Edward I (known also as "Hammer of the Scots") was laid to rest here in 1307 after the King died of dysentery on Burgh Marsh while waiting to cross the Firth of Solway for an encounter with the forces of Robert the Bruce.

Door to St. Michael's Church

Vicarage at St. Michael's Church

Being from Easton, Maryland and headed for Bowness on Solway,
I obviously found this road sign to be of interest.

The Firth of Solway at Low Tide — Scotland on the Distant Shore

The Last Woodlands Path Into Bowness-on-Solway

The Official End of the Hadrian's Wall National Trail

Thanks to Robert and Dominic for helping to make this walk one of the most memorable experiences of my life. As the travel writer Tim Cahill has written, "a journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles."

Where to next? No limits except my imagination.

Photo Credit: The photo of Tullie House and Museum is from http://www.visitcumbria.com. All other photos taken by author.

WALKING THE HADRIAN'S WALL PATH: Days 4 and 5 — Once Brewed to Newtown

2011-09-05T15:18:00.001-04:00

Day 4: Once Brewed to Gilsland

This would be the day that The Solitary Walker and I would meet the inimitable Dominic Rivron, author of the multifaceted blog, Made Out of Words. Precisely where we would meet Dominic, however, remained a mystery, so we left Once Brewed (yes, this is actually the name of a village) and returned to the undulating path that followed the wall westward.

Robert and I at Green Slate, the Highest Point of the Hadrian's Wall Path

The Path and Wall Above the Village of Once Brewed

Heather Along the Pathway

The Solitary Walker

The Surrounding Countryside

Passing Through a Small Farmstead

Robert (left) and I Meet Dominic on the Path

A Young Family Walks Above the Windshield Crags

Lunch with Robert and Dominic Inside the Ruins of a Milecastle

The Wall and the Path Westward

Dominic Climbing up to What Remains of Thirlwall Castle, a Fourteenth
Century Structure That Was Constructed With Stones From Hadrian's Wall

Dominic and Robert Walking on Top of a Turf-covered Portion of the Wall

A Scene That Prompted an Extensive
Discussion About Various Types of Relationships

A Point at Which the Path Dips Through The Front Garden of a Cottage

Day 5: Gilsland to Newtown

Robert and Dominic Crossing the River Irthing

An Old Barn That Appears to Have Been
Constructed With Stones Taken From Hadrian's Wall

A Peaceful View From the Path

A Lovely Cottage Under the Darkening Sky

Spotting this straight line of cairns on a small stream, we initially thought we had discovered a work of environmental art by Andy Goldsworthy.

After further exploration, however . . .

. . . we discovered a strange but fascinating spot, with a large canvass containing the drawings and scribblings of myriad people, many of whom appeared to be walkers along the Hadrian's Wall path.

Someone had also lined the stream bank with tattered pieces of furniture, covered in plastic to protect them from the elements. As you can see from the photo of Dominic above and the photo below, we sat beside the stream . . .

. . . listened to the water's music, and had a lengthy discussion about the possible meaning of the place. One thing seemed clear: Previous visitors had taken the time to mark their passages with additions to the line of cairns.

In keeping with that tradition, we decided to construct our own cairn. (For more on this streamside adventure, see Dominic's post, Almost Heaven)

In the funniest episode of the entire walk, we encountered a herd of cows at the corner of a field, blocking our access to the gate through which we had to pass. Oddly, the farmer who owned the herd approached us in the adjacent field on an ATV and said, "What are you going to do now?" Since he seemed to enjoy our predicament, we decided to approach the herd calmly and maturely. Our plans went quickly awry, however, when someone recalled a story about walkers being trampled by cows in a stampede. The herd must have heard the word "stampede," for they immediately executed an about-face and began heading in our direction . . .

This called for a brief retreat until the farmer, undoubtedly rollicking with laughter, decided to open the gate and allow his hungry herd to pass into the adjacent pasture.

Mysterious cairns on a stream, inhospitable cows, some grizzly carrion found on a section of the road we had crossed in the morning — what would be next? Perhaps two dead crows hanging form a post advertising nearby accommodations. Needless to say, we skipped the bunk house and moved on to Newtown.

Next Post: Days 6 and 7 — Newtown to Bowness-on-Solway

WALKING THE HADRIAN'S WALL PATH: Day 3 — Wall to Once Brewed

2011-09-02T14:51:00.002-04:00

Robert and Dominic (orange shell) Walking on Top of a Turf-covered Portion of the Wall

From Wall I'd been shadowing a figure in a blue rain shell and red cap for about half an hour. I was pretty sure it was him. We crossed the river Tyne at Chollerford separated by only a few minutes . . .

The Solitary Walker

"Bloggers are Real People Too"

Post of August 29, 2011

On the morning of my third day, while checking out of the Hadrian Hotel in Wall, I briefly glanced at another guest whose face vaguely reminded me of the tiny photo of Robert that appears in the profile section of The Solitary Walker. Quickly, however, I dismissed any thought that this might actually be The Solitary Walker, because Robert and I had specifically agreed to meet the following afternoon in the village of Gilsland.

Leaving the hotel, I walked through a light rain toward Chollerford, detouring along the way to explore another fine section of the wall and the foundation of one of the old turrets. . .

In Chollerford, I crossed a lovely old bridge over the River Tyne . . .

and then proceeded to Chesters Fort, which is considered to be the best visible remains of a Roman cavalry fort in Britain. Arriving a few minutes before the gates opened, I walked up several steps to the museum entrance and began chatting with a couple of German walkers. Sensing the presence of someone behind me, I stepped back ever so slightly, and in doing so, I slipped off the edge of the elevated platform and began tumbling down the steps. In an effort to avoid a small disaster — and obviously inspired by some of the free-style skiing maneuvers I have seen in the winter Olympics — I executed what I would call a "half twist with poles," which, fortunately, allowed me to remain upright and uninjured, though I almost collided with a stranger in a blue rain shell similar to my own.

As soon as I regained my composure, the stranger made a comment about how amazing it was that two walkers in similar rain gear had so much in common. As I hesitated, trying to come up with an appropriate response, the stranger asked if I was doing the entire Hadrian's Wall walk alone, whereupon I replied that I would be joined by a good friend the next day. And then came the stranger's zinger: "Would that friend happen to be the solitary walker?" Well, as they say, folks, the rest is history. Robert and I began talking as if we had known each other for our entire lives, and we continued to talk for the next four days as we hiked through some of the most beautiful and historically interesting countryside that England has to offer.

Robert — The Solitary Walker

Some of the other sights seen on this day's walk are set forth below. With nothing more than captions, I will let the photos speak for themselves.

Ruins of Chesters Fort

A Portion of the Hadrian's Wall to Left of the Path

A Farmstead Near the Wall

Ruins of a Mithras Temple
(Mithras was the Latin name of the Persian god, Mithra, and Mithraism,
a religion which emphasized truth, honor, bravery, and discipline,
was the unofficial faith of the Roman soldiers)

Close-up of Inside the Mithras Temple

The Solitary Walker and Other Walkers Discuss a Navigational Issue

A Portion of the Path on Top of the Turf-Covered Wall

Foundation of Old Turret

Path Along the Wall

Beautiful Views of the Countryside From Higher Elevations

Distant View of Wall Snaking Through the Hills

Other Walkers on the Path

Ruins of the Roman Fort at Housesteads

Housesteads

Housesteads — Ruins of the Granary

Housesteads

Robert Walking Up the Whin Sill Ridge

A Stone Structure Near Sycamore Gap

Robert Ascending From Sycamore Gap

Sycamore Gap (behind Robert) is named after the large, solitary sycamore that grows in the dip. According to Henry Steadman, author of Hadrian's Wall Path, "the sycamore is something of a local celebrity, having appeared in the film Robin Hood alongside Kevin Costner (where, despite the distinct disadvantage of being a tree, it still managed to appear less wooden than its co-star.)"

Another Milecastle

The Path Took Us Toward the Village of Once Brewed . . .

. . . Before a Final Descent and a Short Walk to the Village

Next Post: Days 4 and 5 — Once Brewed to Newtown

WALKING THE HADRIAN'S WALL PATH: Days 1 and 2 — Wallsend to Wall

2011-08-29T17:13:00.001-04:00

Milecastle 39 of Hadrian's Wall

Hadrian's Wall formed the north-west frontier of the Roman empire for most of the period AD122-410. The empire's frontiers extended over 5,000 km from the Atlantic coast of Britain through Europe, the Middle East and across North Africa to the Atlantic.

The site's outstanding universal value to humanity is recognized under the World Heritage Convention, 1972.

Inscription on UNESCO Plaque at Segedunum

Eight days ago, I completed my 85-mile walk of the Hadrian's Wall Path, which stretches westward from Wallsend (just outside Newcastle on Tyne) to Bowness on Solway. Now part of the United Kingdom's incomparable national trail system, the path follows the ruins of the magnificent wall constructed by the Romans between AD 122 and 128 under the direction and guidance of Emperor Hadrian, who is remembered historically as one of "the five good emperors."

The Romans occupied Britannia in AD 43 and spent many years thereafter trying to subjugate the local tribes. On the whole, they were eminently successful; indeed, to some extent, many of the southern tribes eventually grew comfortable with the civil order and new infrastructure that came with Roman life. The northern tribes, however, known collectively as the Caledones and living in the area that is now Scotland, remained steadfastly recalcitrant and continued to resist Roman occupation at every opportunity. At the same time, mounting obligations in other parts of the Roman Empire were placing new burdens on both the treasury and the manpower of the empire. Thus, rather than remain in perennial conflict with the Caledones, the Romans decided to formally establish a northern frontier to their empire and to fortify that boundary as a means of separating the "lawless" northern tribes from the conquered and "law-abiding" southern tribes.

It was against this backdrop that Hadrian ordered the construction of the wall in AD 122. Much of the wall has been destroyed over the centuries by subsequent military conflicts, vandalism, scavenging, and weather. What remains, however, is magnificent, which is why UNESCO, in 1987, added the wall to its list of World Heritage Sites, placing the wall in the company of Petra, Angkor Wat, Machu Picchu, the Taj Mahal, and the Great Wall of China. Moreover, as indicated above, a walking path parallel to the wall was formally established and made part of the UK's national trail network in 2003.

I was honored to be joined on the walk by my two great friends — Robert, author of The Solitary Walker, who joined me for four days of the walk, and Dominic, author of Made Out of Words, who joined us for a couple of those days. Meeting these guys and enjoying their fine, cheerful, and edifying company was, without question, the highlight of the entire trip for me. For what it's worth, there was not a scintilla of difference between the friends I encountered personally and the initial impressions I had drawn of them from their respective blogs. Authentic, intelligent, adventurous, morally courageous, and good humored — these are the words that best describe the two guys who tramped with me through the best sections of the Hadrian's Wall path.

More about Robert and Dominic to come, so let's begin.

Day 1: Wallsend to Wylam

The path began inauspiciously at Wallsend near the foundation (photo below) of the ancient Roman fort of Segedunum, which is located in a largely industrial area.

Soon after leaving Segedunnum, however, the path took on its own kind of beauty, with magnificent patches of rosebay willowherb juxtaposed against the blue fences that offered visual protection from some of the modern developments.

The initial four or five miles of the path is an asphalt walking/cycling track that runs alongside the River Tyne. At one point, however, the path diverted through some lovely parkland . . .

. . . before returning to the asphalt track along the river. In the distance, I could see the city of Newcastle . . .

. . . which has some very interesting bridges, including the Millennium Bridge (below), also known as the "winking eye" or "blinking eye" bridge. As one can see from the darkness of the next photo, however, the weather was taking a turn for the worse, so I pressed on, eager to reach the green, softer footing of the English countryside.

After leaving Newcastle, I reached the pleasant surroundings of the Tyne Riverside Country Park and and followed a riparian path that catered to equestrians and cyclists, as well as walkers.

After a few miles, the path turned away from the river, proceeded through some pleasant communities . . .

. . . and turned down the Wylam Waggonway. . .

. . . past the childhood cottage of George Stephenson, inventor of first steam locomotive for railroads . . .

. . . to the village of Wylam, where I spent the first evening.

Day 2: Wylam to Wall

After a brief walk to from Wylam to Heddon-on-the-Wall, I discovered the first significant portion of Hadrian's Wall.

The path then paralleled a highway that was built upon the wall many years ago. The views were lovely, however, often giving me a sense of walking up into the clouds.

Being a national trail, the path was well marked. When in doubt on a national trail, one need only follow the white acorn, which is always posted on signposts, stiles, kissing gates, and other places along the path.

After crossing the road in the above photo, I continued westward past magnificent wheat and barley fields, all crowned with magical clouds.

Passing through small villages, I discovered lovely old church doors . . .

. . . colorful barns . . .

. . . and stunning landscapes . . .

As I moved westward, the path was bracketed by endless bouquets of wildflowers on the left and a stone wall on the right . . .

. . . eventually leading me to cross the road, walk through a pasture of grazing cows . . .

. . . cross over a stile (note the white acorn reminder of a national trail) . . .

. . . and discover a wonderful new section of the wall.

A few miles later, I arrived at the village of Wall, where I spent my second evening of the walk at the Hadrian Hotel. Little did I know that another guest in the hotel that night was the mysterious Solitary Walker . . .

Stay tuned. The scenery and the stories get better in the next post.

REMEMBERING A DISTANT FRIEND

2011-07-08T16:56:00.002-04:00

In my last posting, I told the story of two encounters that my college roommate, Anthony, and I had fifty years ago with the novelist William Faulkner. Little did I know when I wrote that post that Anthony was in the last days of his battle with mantle cell lymphoma, a cancer that he had been fighting for more than a decade. A few days ago, I learned that just eight days after my post, Anthony finally succumbed to the disease and died in Buenos Aires, the city in which he had chosen to spend his final days.

Since learning of Anthony's death, I have felt the need to offer a small tribute to his life. It's been a difficult task, however, because this was not one of those friendships that endured through thick and thin. While our lives intersected for a few good years during our youth, we eventually followed very different paths and lifestyles, and, increasingly with each passing year, we had less and less in common. One thing that remained, however, was a mutual love of language and the myriad ways in which words can be crafted and spoken to lift and sustain the human spirit. Words, words, words — their beauty, their magic, and their undeniable power — a power that drove me to become a lawyer and Anthony to become an actor.

Anthony's life was so complex that I would surely miss the mark if I tried to pay tribute to his life with my own words. A far better tribute, I think, will emerge if I simply quote the words of three poetic works that were chiseled into Anthony's memory and psyche. These words always spoke deeply to Anthony's soul, and at this particular moment, they speak deeply to mine.

How Calmly Does The Orange Branch

by Tennessee Williams

(From "Night of the Iguana," Act III)

How calmly does the orange branch

Observe the sky begin to blanch

Without a cry, without a prayer,

With no betrayal of despair.

Sometime while night obscures the tree

The zenith of its life will be

Gone past forever, and from thence

A second history will commence.

A chronicle no longer gold,

A bargaining with mist and mould,

And finally the broken stem

The plummeting to earth; and then

An intercourse not well designed

For beings of a golden kind

Whose native green must arch above

The earth's obscene, corrupting love.

And still the ripe fruit and the branch

Observe the sky begin to blanch

Without a cry, without a prayer,

With no betrayal of despair.

O Courage, could you not as well

Select a second place to dwell,

Not only in that golden tree

But in the frightened heart of me?

Explanations of Love

Carl Sandburg

There is a place where love begins and a place

where love ends.

There is a touch of two hands that foils all

dictionaries.

There is a look of eyes fierce as a big Bethlehem open
hearth

furnace or a little green-fire acetylene torch.

There are single careless bywords portentous as a

big bend in the Mississippi River.

Hands, eyes, bywords—out of these love makes

battlegrounds and workshops,

There is a pair of shoes love wears and the coming

is a mystery.

There is a warning love sends and the cost of it

is never written till long afterward.

There are explanations of love in all languages

and not one found wiser than this:

There is a place where love begins and a place

where love ends—and love asks nothing.

The Lunatic, The Lover, and The Poet
( an excerpt from Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream")

   Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
   Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
   More than cool reason ever comprehends.
   The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact.

One sees more devils that vast hell can hold;

That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt.

The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination

That if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy;

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed to bear!

Perhaps there is a lunatic, a lover, and a poet in each of us — our lunatic selves seeing more devils than hell can hold, our lover selves always in a state of frenzy, and our poet selves always turning our experiences into comprehensible shapes, shapes that, hopefully, will bear more joy than fear. And if there is more fear than joy, perhaps we can always summon Courage to come and dwell in our frightened hearts.

Whatever the case, Anthony, I thank you for those good and memorable days of youthful friendship, those days when we rowed oar-to-oar like mates of Ulysses, determined, in Tennyson's glorious words, "to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." With your passing, I cannot help but recall those words that Horatio spoke on Hamlet's death: May "flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Credit: Photo by Mohamed Amarochan, Wikimedia Commons.

BRIEF ENCOUNTERS WITH FAULKNER

2011-06-13T21:01:00.003-04:00

William Faulkner
1897 - 1962

There is a scene in Woody Allen's recent film, Midnight in Paris, in which the protagonist reminds his fiancée of one of my favorite lines from William Faulkner: "The past is never dead. It's not even past." Hearing that line again reminded me of a couple of brief, personal encounters I had with Faulkner in 1961, when I was a student at the University of Mississippi, better known perhaps as "Ole Miss."

Like most other students at the university, my roommate, Anthony, and I were reading Faulkner as part of our freshman curriculum. Emboldened by our intellectual pursuits, we decided one day that we could better appreciate Faulkner's novels — perhaps even understand The Sound and the Fury — if we had a personal, face-to-face conversation with the writer, who lived in Oxford, just a couple of miles from the university campus. We recognized, of course, that Faulkner was a man of considerable fame, having received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1950, and having published more than sixteen novels, but we remained undaunted in our quest. If Faulkner had such great affection for all of those dreary characters he created in the fictional Yacknapatawpha County, Mississippi, he would surely welcome a couple of idealistic, albeit naive, students from the real deal — Stone County, a few hundred miles to the south.

Thus inspired, Anthony and I drove to Faulkner's home on Taylor Street one afternoon and entered the tree-lined driveway that led past a couple of barking bloodhounds to the house. After knocking on the front door several times, all to no avail, we walked to the back of the house and mounted the back steps to the door of a screened-in sleeping porch. Peering through the screen door, we saw an elderly man taking a nap on an old iron bed. Immediately sensing that we were pressing out luck, we turned and attempted to scamper away with nothing more than a few giggles. Alas, however, it was too late. The man arose from the bed and demanded to know what we wanted. Summoning what little courage I could find, I replied that my friend and I were just university students who were hoping to get a chance to talk with him about his work. "I'm not Faulkner," he replied. "Faulkner is in New York to see his agent and will not return until next week."

Armed as I was with a paperback copy of Faulkner's third novel, Sartoris, which boldly displayed a photo of Faulkner on the back cover, I knew for certain that this was Faulkner and that he was lying through his teeth, all in the hope of banishing the two students who had disturbed his afternoon nap.  In deference to the Nobel Prize winner, however, and with due respect for his menacing bloodhounds, Anthony and I apologized for our intrusion and politely asked the gentleman to please give Mr. Faulkner our best wishes. We then promptly departed, plotting our next move as we drove away.

Having been rebuffed in our first attempt to have a serious conversation with Faulkner, Anthony and I decided that a more creative approach was required. We needed to make better presentations of ourselves, perhaps by wearing suits, and, more importantly, we needed our next visit to be accompanied by dates with two lovely university coeds, whose charms would prove to be irresistible to the curmudgeonly author. Happily, the approach worked flawlessly. When we returned to Faulkner's house a few evenings later, he came to the front portico and spent a short amount of time with us as we made idle chat and I asked inane, pretentious questions. At one point, I told Faulkner that I was reading Sartoris and wondered if the rumors were true that Colonel John Sartoris, the old patriarch of the novel, was modeled after the author's great-grandfather. With a look of considerable disgust, tempered by patience, Faulkner stared at me for a moment and then brushed the question aside, strongly suggesting that we should confine our discussion to a matter of mutual interest, specifically, the comeliness of the two young ladies who had joined us. Respectfully, though reluctantly, I complied.

I have never been a great fan of Faulkner's novels, with the possible exception of Light in August. Had I been given another chance to meet the author, however, I would have asked him a question that has puzzled me for years. The question relates to two quotes, one the soliloquy from Macbeth that inspired the title of Faulkner's fourth novel, The Sound and the Fury, and the other being from Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech. In Macbeth's soliloquy, Shakespeare wrote:

   Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
   That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
   And then is heard no more: it is a tale
   Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
   Signifying nothing.

This philosophy — beautifully written as it is — offers little solace to the questing heart. In his Noble Prize acceptance speech, however, Faulkner suggests that we are not condemned to a fate of despair, that we may, indeed, find lasting meaning in our lives. Listen!

I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.

I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

So this is the question I have always wanted to ask, Bill (as Faulkner was affectionately referred to around Oxford). Did you finally conclude that Shakespeare was wrong? Did you discover that our shadowed lives are more than tales told by idiots, more than mere sound and fury, and that our lives do, in fact, signify something, especially when the compassionate soul finds a way to speak, to lift the human heart, and to imbue man with courage, honor, and hope? As you can see, Bill, there was so much we could have discussed on that humid summer evening some fifty years ago. Ah, but why debate the past? As you have always reminded me, Bill, the past is never really dead — indeed, it's not even really past.

Faulkner's House, "Rowan Oak,"

Now Maintained as a Museum

By the University of Mississippi

Photo by Gary Bridgman

BEAUTY AND THE SPRINGTIME OF POSSIBILITY

2011-04-21T10:11:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately, my postings since the beginning of the year have been few and far between. This has been a disappointment for me because I derive great nourishment from the beauty, wisdom, and inspiration that I discover in my conversations with friends in the blogging community. From time to time, however, the pressing demands of everyday life escalate to a level that leaves little breathing room for either pleasure or reflection.

With the demands in my own life compounding lately, rather than abating, I woke up and came into my office around 3:15 this morning, intending to post a note stating that I would be taking a sabbatical from blogging until things improve. As soon as I retrieved my blog, however, the banner of current postings by others reminded me of how much I need these conversations in order to meet the challenges of life. That caused me to pause for a moment and pick up the book I have just finished reading, namely, Beauty: The Invisible Embrace, by the late John O'Donahue, a fine Irish writer and one of my favorite navigators of the human heart. Turning to a dog-eared page, I reread a passage that I read a couple of nights ago and which has resonated deeply with me since then. I quote that passage below because it speaks more eloquently than I can about the terrain through which I have been passing for several months. The depth and power of these words convinces me that I must not allow the distractions of the day to divert me from the sources of strength that I will require for the journey. Thus, rather than take a sabbatical from postings, I am going to redouble my efforts to post on a more frequent basis.

From Beauty: The Invisible Embrace, under a subsection titled "The Lost Voice" —

A time of bleakness can also be a time of pruning. Sometimes when our minds are dispersed and scattered, this pruning cuts away all of the false branching where our passion and energy were leaking out. While it is painful to experience and endure this, a new focus and clarity emerge. The light that is hard won offers the greatest illumination. A gift wrestled from bleakness will often confer a sense of sureness and grounding of the self, a strengthening proportionate to the travail of its birth. The severity of Nothingness can lead to beauty. Where life had gone stale, transfiguration occurs. The ruthless winter clearance of spirit quietly leads to springtime of possibility. Perhaps Nothingness is the secret source from which all beginning springs.

There are also times of malaise, when life moves into the stillness of quiet death. Though you function externally, something is silently dying inside of you, something you can no longer save. You are not yet able to name what you are losing, but you sense that its departure cannot be halted. Those who know you well can hear behind your words the deadened voice, the monotone of unremedied sadness. Your lost voice cannot be quieted. It becomes audible despite your best efforts to mask it. Sometimes even from a stranger one overhears the pathos of the lost voice: it may speak with passion on a fascinating topic, yet its mournful music seeps out, suggesting the no man's land where the speaker is now marooned. Put flippantly, no-one ever really knows what they are saying. The adventure of voice into silence and silence into voice: this is the privilege and burden of the poet.

Since first reading Anam Cara, I have long treasured O'Donahue's insights into the spiritual landscape of the human heart. I did not discover O'Donahue's meditation on beauty, however, until after reading Fireweed Meadow's wonderful posting, Beauty by John O'Donahue, which I heartily recommend to other readers. Thanks, Fireweed, for bringing this book to my attention and inspiring this post.

RABBIT HOLES, REAL ESTATE, AND REALITY

2011-03-10T17:20:00.000-05:00

Homestead Near Keld, U.K., Taken During My Coast to Coast Walk Last June

Where thou art—that—is Home.

Emily Dickinson

With the exception of a few sporadic comments here and there, I have been largely absent from the blogging community for about a month. This all began rather innocently as my wife and I embarked upon a house search, thinking that we would like to relocate from Maryland to South Carolina later this year. In a matter of days, however, I fell into a rabbit hole and descended into the chaos and confusion of today's real estate world.

After considerable hand-wringing, debate, and prolonged negotiations with the owners of a particular house, we signed a contract to purchase the property, subject to several contingencies. As soon as the ink was dry, however, we were visited by a plague of problems, some of which were legal in nature (e.g., perceived violations of setback requirements) and some of which were structural in nature (e.g., a malfunctioning septic system). While we attempted to work toward the resolution of these issues, the sellers eventually decided that they preferred to have the contract cancelled, rather than provide the additional time necessary to address these matters. In the end, it was much ado about nothing, except, of course, the wear and tear on the soul, which is what I want to talk about in this posting.

Lest there be any doubt, my purpose here is not to whine about losing this particular house. Indeed, I am somewhat relieved that this affair has finally come to an end. What I do regret, however, is the loss of the time and energy wasted on, of all things, a material possession! It wasn't just the money spent on experts, surveys, and inspections; it was the forfeited time that would have otherwise been spent in solitude and gratitude, time for listening rather than talking, time for watching herons and egrets meditate upon the edges of these coastal marshlands. Take these hours from a person and you have essentially shortened a life.

One of the great ironies of modern life is that we must function in a world that is undeniably competitive, capitalistic, and ego-driven, while, simultaneously, we are called upon by virtually all spiritual wisdom to transcend that world. It may be, as F. Scott Fitzgerald stated in The Crack-Up," that "the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function." I, for one, however, find this extremely difficult when it comes to remaining transcendent through the day to day challenges of living in a materialistic world. Transcendence works best for me when I am immersed in art, nature, solitude, or some form of meditation. Place me in the center of commercial negotiations, however, and I become a hopeless recidivist, trying to nail down my security in an insecure world and attaching myself to desirable outcomes. It is only later — after diagnosing my dis-ease — that I return to the centering wisdom of my teachers, those who have repeatedly warned me that control of one's fate is an illusion and that attachment to desirable outcomes is a set-up for suffering.

Almost two thousand years ago, Pliny the Elder cautioned us that "home is where the heart is." If that is true — and I believe it is — my home is in a place that has no measurable metes and bounds. It is a place where art and creativity flourish, where ideas are more valuable than money or property, where kindred spirits become fellow pilgrims in the quest for better selves and a better world. It is, among other things, here in this blogging community where I have returned to find inspiring poetry, spiritual insights, and heartfelt commentary on matters of ultimate importance. When I see the tracks of my fellow pilgrims, I know that I am out of the rabbit hole, back to reality, and on my way home.

THE WISDOM OF BIRDS

2011-02-06T22:06:00.000-05:00

Snowy Egret

Like my late father, I find birds to be endlessly fascinating. At some level, I suppose, we are all like Daedalus and Icarus, harboring a latent desire for wings that will liberate us from the narrow confines of the world's labyrinth. At another level, however, I simply feel a personal connection with many birds, especially the large birds with whom one can establish and maintain eye contact. With these birds, I always sense a kind of mutual empathy, a mutual awareness that, for better or worse, we will need each other for the journey ahead. Maybe it's a mutual respect for each other's solitude, coupled with a recognition that even solitaries are interdependent in the greater scheme of things.

Whatever the case, I have been spending a great deal of time in recent weeks observing the abundant bird life that inhabits this part of coastal South Carolina. A few photos of my friends are set forth below, together with some relevant observations by writers who have discovered the wisdom and metaphorical values of birds.

Great White Egret

With an eye made quiet by the power

of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

we see into the life of things.

Wordsworth

Great Blue Heron

I am looking at a great blue heron who is building a nest in the pine tree next to my father's home. Every once in a while she stretches her long neck and points her head toward the heavens, and I feel the stretch in my throat. She stands immobile for long periods staring into the eastern horizon and then floats to the canal below for some food. I have seen this heron mother for years in the same pine tree. Winter is her season to nest. She stands like a blue-gray guardian of the past, not seeming to take notice of the flow of traffic on the highway . . .

This great heron reminds me that storying is a kind of root medicine, a way for us to enter our depths and derive nourishment from the fruitful darkness. For her life to succeed, this big mother heron needs her old pine tree and her dark inland water. She needs continuity, heights, and depths for her life to be complete. It is this way with tellings, with stories, with myths, with prayer, prophecy, and song. They call forth the firmness of the tree and the yielding deep water in moments of transmitted inspiration.

Joan Haliflax
The Fruitful Darkness

Great White Egret

Birds make great sky-circles

of their freedom.

How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling,

they're given wings.

Rumi

Great White Egret

I studied the bird, deeply impressed that she seemed to know instinctively that in stillness is healing. I had been learning that too, learning that stillness can be a prayer that transforms us.

Sue Monk Kidd
When the Heart Waits

Great White Egret Egret

Birdsong brings relief

to my longing.

I am just as ecstatic as they are,

but with nothing to say!

Please, universal soul, practice

some song, or something, through me!

Rumi

Great Blue Heron

EMERSON AND SELF-RELIANCE

2011-01-29T14:19:00.001-05:00

Ralph Waldo Emerson
1803 - 1882

One of my oldest possessions is a two-volume set of the collected essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson. From the first serious reading of those essays as a college freshman, I knew that I had discovered a friend to whom I could always turn when searching for guidance on issues of ultimate importance. Now, more than five decades later, my admiration and respect for Emerson remain the same. His observations on the nature and potential of mankind are as relevant today as they were in the nineteenth century. As philosopher and writer Jacob Needleman states in The Spiritual Emerson, a new compendium of seven of Emerson's essays —

Reading Emerson can awaken a part of the psyche that our culture has suppressed. And when this part of our human nature makes itself known to us, we are, for that moment, no longer hypnotized by the black dream of a dead universe or the hellish dream of a vain and angry God. Nor, for that moment, are we under the spell of sudden illusions or arrogant fantasies about what human beings are and what they can become: illusions that deny the true metaphysical nobility of man; fantasies that blind us to how far we actually are from that nobility.

In keeping with what has almost become an annual ritual, I have been re-reading some the Emerson essays that influenced me as a young man seeking liberation from the stifling conformity of my southern background. These essays inspire me now as they always have, and I would like to share some of Emerson's thinking with you on my blog, beginning today with some excerpts from "Self-Reliance." As I read this wisdom, I continue to ask myself if there is anyone writing today who not only possesses such a penetrating mind, but who also has the power to summon us to our better natures.

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost . . .

* * * * *

A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages.

* * * * *

There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better or worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till.

* * * * *

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you . . .

* * * * *

The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and customs. . . . Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist.

* * * * *

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.

* * * * *

I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions.

* * * * *

Truth is handsomer than the affectation of love.

* * * * *

You will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after your own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.

* * * * *

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do.

* * * * *

To be great is to be misunderstood.

* * * * *

These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exists with God today. There is not time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. . . . But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

* * * * *

Power ceases in the instant of repose; it resides in the moment of transition from a past to a new state, in the shooting of the gulf, in the darting to an aim.

* * * * *

Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life's cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another you have only an extemporaneous half possession.

* * * * *

Abide in the simple and noble regions of thy life, obey thy heart . . .

* * * * *

Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles.

Emerson's Study

ART: WHERE WE SPEAK OF HOLY THINGS

2011-01-19T17:56:00.000-05:00

Dish of Apples (ca. 1875-77)
Paul Cezanne

Frederick Buechner is a novelist, spiritual writer, and former minister who has wonderful gifts of insight into life, art, and other matters of ultimate importance. While perusing a collection of Buechner's writings last night, I came across a discussion of the role that art plays in our lives. I share it with you today because I believe it will resonate with those who read this blog on a fairly regular basis. As you read this excerpt, you will discover the relevance of the paintings I have chosen to accompany this post. Enjoy.

Portrait of the Artist's Mother (ca. 1629)
Rembrandt

Excerpt from Meditation for February 20

Listening to Your Life, by Frederick Buechner

From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel and densest drama, literature is asking us to pay attention. Pay attention to the frog. Pay attention to the west wind. Pay attention to the boy on the raft, the lady in the tower, the old man on the train. In sum, pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein and thereby learn at last to pay attention to yourself and all that dwells therein.

The painter does the same thing, of course. Rembrandt puts a frame around and old woman's face. It is seamed with wrinkles. The upper lip is sunken in, the skin waxy and pale. It is not a remarkable face. You would not look twice at the old woman if you found her sitting across the aisle from you on a bus. But it is a face so remarkably seen that it forces you to see it remarkably just as Cezanne makes you see a bowl of apples or Andrew Wyeth a muslin curtain blowing in at an open window. It is a face unlike any other face in all the world. All the faces in the world are in this one old face.

Unlike painters, who work with space, musicians work with time, with note following note as second follows second. Listen! says Vivaldi, Brahms, Stravinsky. Listen to this time that I have framed between the first note and the last and to these sounds in time. Listen to the way the silence is broken into uneven lengths between the sounds and the silences themselves. Listen to the scrape of the bow against the gut, the rap of stick against the drumhead, the rush of breath through reed and wood. The sounds of the earth are like music, the old song goes, and the sounds of the music are also the sounds of the earth, which of course is where the music comes from. Listen to the voices outside the window, the rumble of the furnace, the creak of your chair, the water running in the kitchen sink. Learn to listen to the music of your own lengths of time, your own silences.

Literature, painting, music — the most basic lesson that all art teaches us is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet, including our own lives, as a vastly richer, deeper, more mysterious business than most of the time it ever occurs to us to suspect as we bumble along from day to day on automatic pilot. In a world that for the most part steers clear of the whole idea of holiness, art is one of the few places left where we can speak to each other of holy things.

Wind from the Sea (1948)
Andrew Wyeth

THE SEA IN WINTER

2011-01-17T12:50:00.000-05:00

When anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea, and the sea drowns them out with its great wide sounds, cleanses me with its noise, and imposes a rhythm upon everything in me that is bewildered and confused.

Rilke

Here on the coast of South Carolina, where my wife and I have come for the winter, I devote much of my time to walking the magnificent beaches that define this part of the Atlantic coastline. Gone are the sunbathers of summer, with their beach chairs, their overloaded coolers, and their colorful umbrellas. This is now a place where one can find solitude, a place where memory deepens, a place where we can seemingly reenter the womb of nature from whence we began our journey.

From the inception of human thought, mankind has felt a special connection with the sea. There is something about its rhythm and constancy that is both cleansing and reassuring. When we stand at the sea's edge looking into infinity, we know in our hearts that we are part of something much grander and more complex than our individual, day-to-day lives. We hear the surf rise and fall; we watch the tide deposit its gifts and then reclaim them; we see the light rise, then fall, only to rise again — and, like the light, we are born again into each new moment. Perhaps it was best said by Pablo Neruda in the poem quoted at the end of this piece: "Every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning."

While I often walk these beaches with my wife and my Zen master, Derry, I also spend a great deal of time walking alone. Some might find this a lonely enterprise, but I do not. Indeed, I find myself in complete agreement with that fine writer and lover of the sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, who once said:

The loneliness you get by the sea is personal and alive. It doesn't subdue you and make you feel abject. It's a simulating loneliness.

Rilke is so right about the effects the sea on the human spirit. The "great wide sounds" of the ocean drown out the "anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts," and "impose a rhythm upon everything . . . that is bewildered and confused." When the rhythm is restored to our lives, we begin to hear the music again — and with the music comes the dance.

Set forth below are a few photos that I have taken during my walks of the past couple of days. I have also chosen some insightful comments from others on the mystical connection between mankind and the sea. Enjoy.

The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach.

Henry Beston

The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach — waiting for a gift from the sea.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Every time we walk along a beach, some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war.

Loren Eisley

. . . for whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it's always ourselves we find in the sea.

E.E. Cummings

The cure for anything is salt water — sweat, tears, or the sea.

Isak Dinesen

I find myself at the extremity of a long beach. How gladly does the spirit leap forth, and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the full extent of the broad, blue, sunny deep!

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Why to we love the sea? It is because it has some potent power to make us think things we like to think.

Robert Henri

Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.

Jacques Cousteau

In every curving beach, in every grain of sand, there is the story of the earth.

Rachel Carson

Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.

Emerson

My Wife, Margaret, and the Zen Master at Play

I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because, in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears.

We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.

John F. Kennedy

It Is Born

Here I came to the very edge

where nothing at all needs saying,

everything is absorbed through weather and sea,

and the moon swam back,

its rays all silvered,

and time and again the darkness would be broken

by the crash of a wave,

and every day on the balcony of the sea,

wings open, fire is born,

and everything is blue again like morning.

Pablo Neruda

Derry

STARTING HERE, STARTING NOW

2011-01-05T20:36:00.000-05:00

Now that the holidays are over, my wife and I are headed to coastal South Carolina, where the temperatures are a little more conducive to outdoor activities during the winter months. Before departing, however, I want to post a few memorable quotes that have caught my attention in recent days. The first two quotes are from Henry Miller and Thoreau, respectively, and the third is a poem by William Stafford. The common theme in these quotes is the importance of surrendering to the beauty and mystery of the present moment — this day, this hour, this moment, NOW. As Henry Miller states in the opening quote, we tamper with the universe at our own peril.

When you put your mind to such a simple, innocent thing, for example, as making a water color, you lose some of the anguish which derives from being a member of a world gone mad. Whether you paint flowers, stars, horses or angels you acquire respect and admiration for all the elements which go to make up our universe. You don't call flowers friends, stars enemies, or horses Communists, and angels Fascists. You accept them for what they are and you praise God that they are what they are. You desist from improving the world or even yourself. You learn to see not what your want to see but what is. And what is is usually a thousand times better than what might be or ought to be.

If we could stop tampering with the universe we might find it a better world than we think it to be. After all, we've only occupied it a few hundred million years, which is to say that we are just beginning to get acquainted with it. And if we continue another billion years there is nothing to assure us that we will eventually know it. In the beginning as in the end, it remains a mystery. And the mystery exists or thrives in every smallest part of the universe. It has nothing to do with size or distance, with grandeur or remoteness. Everything hinges upon how you look at things.

Henry Miller
"The Angel Is My Watermark"
Stand Still Like the Hummingbird

Above all, we cannot afford not to live in the present. He is blessed over all mortals who loses no moment of the passing of life in remembering the past. Unless our philosophy hears the cock crow in every barnyard within our horizon, it is belated. That sound commonly reminds us that we are growing rusty and antique in our employments and habits of thoughts. His philosophy comes down to a more recent time than ours. There is something suggested by it that is a newer testament, — the gospel according to this moment. He has not fallen astern; he has got up early and kept up early, and to be where he is is to be in season, in the foremost rank of time. It is an expression of the health and soundness of Nature, a brag for all the world, — healthiness as a spring burst forth, a new fountain of the Muses, to celebrate this last instant of time.

Thoreau
Walking

You Reading This, Be Ready

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life —

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

William Stafford

Reed Life

PEACE AND JOY, HERE AND NOW!

RING OUT THE FALSE, RING IN THE TRUE

2010-12-31T09:27:00.001-05:00

Celebration

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Tennyson

Once again, we come to the threshold of a new year, the time-honored transitional point where we are expected to pause, consider our shortcomings, and institute new resolutions designed to insure that we reach the end of the year with the perfection of Greek gods. Studies have shown, however, that the vast majority of New Year's resolutions are soon abandoned. Oscar Wilde once opined that "good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account." In a similar vein, Mark Twain quipped:

Yesterday, everybody smoked his last cigar, took his last drink, and swore his last oath. Today, we are a pious and exemplary community. Thirty days from now, we shall have cast our reformation to the winds and gone to cutting our ancient shortcomings shorter than ever.

Perhaps it is a failure of character on my part, but I have seldom made New Year's resolutions. The reason is quite simple: If I need a cultural tradition or a calendar date to set me on the right path, it's highly unlikely that I will remain committed to that path. I am not inclined, however, to be a complete cynic on this New Year's Day, so, in the spirit of joining the festival of resolution makers, I have decided to take a little resolution advice from the essayist John Burroughs and my old reliable friend, Mr. Tennyson. Burroughs once stated that the only resolution he ever made and intended to keep was simply "to rise above the little things," and Tennyson suggested that the best we can do is to simply "ring out the false" and "ring in the true."

Can you imagine what a wonderful world it would be if everyone could just rise above the little things in the coming year, eliminate everything that is false, and ring the bells of truth with every word and every action? That is what I am going to try to accomplish in the coming year in my little corner of the world. I would like to rise increasingly above the petty things that contribute nothing to either my well-being or the happiness of the world. I would also like to intensify the life-long task of eradicating any parts of my life that seem false or inauthentic. With luck, I will be able to ring out everything that is not truly believed in the little "rag and bone shop" of my heart. With hope, I will be able to ring in only that which is true.

A HAPPY AND PEACEFUL NEW YEAR TO ALL!

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS

2010-12-14T10:27:00.002-05:00

With all of my children and grandchildren coming home for the holidays, I will not have much time for blogging until after New Year's Day. Before signing off, however, I want to wish everyone a very, Merry Christmas.

I also want to send a special note of gratitude to my good friends in the blogging community. Your postings throughout the year have always been inspirational, informative, and thought-provoking, and your comments on my site have been unfailingly generous and insightful. I am truly blessed to have such friends.

May your holidays be full of peace and joy; may you eat well, laugh well, and love well; and may you enter the new year with unbounded hope and an open heart.

this

season

of renewal

I give thanks

to this ineffable

and divine mystery

that is the ground of all

being, all love, and all hope;

that has overseen my uncertain

walk through some sixty-eight years;

that has lifted me up when I could not walk,

pushed me forward when the direction was unclear,

sustained my confidence in the darkest hours of doubt.

NKS

The Gratitude Tree

PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY
PEACEANDJOYANDPEACEANDJOY

Happy, happy Christmas,

that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days;

that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth;

that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away,

back to his own fire-side and his quiet home!

Charles Dickens

O
O
O
SANTA
CLAUS
SANTA
CLAUS
SANTA
CLAUS
CLAUS
SANTA
CLAUS
8888888888888888888888
88888888888888888
888888888888

My very best to everyone!

George

and Derry, the Zen Master

SIMPLICITY: ALLOWING THE NECESSARY TO SPEAK

2010-12-08T11:05:00.002-05:00

Many years ago, a friend made me a begging bowl like the ones used by the Buddhist monks. I keep it on my desk, where it can be seen daily, because it reminds me of several principles that I want to guide my life. First, it reminds me of Lao Tzu's paradoxical advice that we must be empty if we wish to be full. Second, it reminds me that my needs, versus my desires, are no greater than what can be placed in a small bowl each day — a little food and a little water. Finally, and most importantly, it reminds me of the need to anchor my life in simplicity — simplicity of purpose, simplicity of thought, simplicity of action.

In a world where one must "make a living", pay bills, discharge household chores, and take care of loved ones, it may be difficult, if not impossible, to achieve the simple life that is the lodestar for many of us. Still, I find there are things that can be done to move my life closer to the ideal. To use the words of the late artist, Hans Hoffman, I can "eliminate the unnecessary so the necessary may speak." And that is what I truly want. I want to hear the music of nature; I want to hear the music of other lives and other cultures; I want to listen to the beat and music of my own heart — music that is often smothered by the din and demand of modern life.

How, then, can we eliminate the unnecessary things in our lives, so that the life-affirming, necessary things can not only speak, but be heard? I'm no expert on these matters, of course — simply a student. There are a few simplicity practices, however, which I have incorporated into my daily life, and which have been paying considerable dividends in terms of the quality of life. Among the practices that I try to follow are these:

Do not make anything larger, more complex, or more serious than it needs to be.

Let nature and solitude be enough for my daily pleasure.

Always remain conscious and present with the task at hand.

Remember that some things are best left undone.

Minimize exposure to "news" and commercial advertising.

Follow Goethe's advice to "hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day . . ."

Keep nothing that is not either useful or beautiful.

Remember that every act of consumption has environmental and social consequences.

Don't waste time attempting to rebut the arguments of foolish people.

To quote Alice Longworth Roosevelt, "fill what's empty, empty what's full, and scratch where it itches."

While I have yet to master these practices, I have found that each provides an effective way of simplifying my life, if only in some small measure. How about you? What practices do you follow to keep yourself anchored in this world of mind-boggling complexity?

Set forth below are some interesting quotes on the need for more simplicity in our lives. Many of these writers have inspired my own practices. May you, too, find inspiration that will bring more simplicity and peace to your own lives.

Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius — and a lot of courage — to move in the opposite direction.

E.F. Schumacher

To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter . . . to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a birds nest or wildflower in spring — these are some of the rewards of the simple life.

John Burroughs

The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in elimination of non-essentials.

Lin Yutang

Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.

William Morris

Be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.

Lao Tzu

Live simply, so that others may simply live.

Gandhi

As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.

Thoreau

Who is rich? He who rejoices in his portion.

The Talmud

If you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted with pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days.

Annie Dillard

Voluntary simplicity means going fewer places in one day rather than more, seeing less so I can see more, doing less so I can do more, acquiring less so I can have more.

John Kabat-Zinn

You can't force simplicity; but you can invite it in by finding as much richness as possible in the few things at hand. Simplicity doesn't mean meagerness but rather a certain kind of richness, the fullness that appears when we stop stuffing the world with things.

Thomas Moore

To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never; in a word to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony.

William Henry Channing

Yesterday, my friend Robert, whose blog is The Solitary Walker, posted a moving article on his view of The Simple Life. I close by quoting from Robert because what he says is as fine as anything said above:

The simple life is the good life, is the best life. Joy, happiness and fulfillment come from the innocent, simple, often freely bestowed pleasures of existence: a bracing cliff top walk on a blustery autumn day; the sound of bagpipes in a remote Scottish glen; crossing the Spanish meseta under a hot sun, then spending the night in a cheap albergue with other pilgrims; growing, preparing and cooking one's own food; the scent of fir tree sap; the cold grittiness of rock beneath the fingers; the tang of citrus; the cry of owls; the running of deer; eating when hungry, drinking when thirsty, sleeping when tired; lovemaking.

Go forth and keep it simple,
my friends,
especially during the holidays!