What gentle echoes, half heard sounds there are around here. . You place yourself in such relation you hear everything that’s said.
Take it or leave it. Return it to a particular condition.
Think slowly. See the things around you,
taking place. . I began wanting a sense of melody, e.g., following the tune, became somehow an image, then several, and I was watching those things becoming in front of me. . The you imagine locates the response. Like turning a tv dial. The message, as one says, is information, a form of energy. The wisdom of the ages is “electrical” impulse. . Lap of water to the hand, lifting up, slaps the side of the dock –
Darkening air, heavy feeling in the air.
A Plan On some summer day when we are far away and there is impulse and time, we will talk about this. — Robert Creeley, Massachusetts
Why do we wait for someday, when today will do? We dream of places far away, when we have far less on our to-do lists, when we might finally slow down enough to catch up with each other. When we might catch up with ourselves. Life moves quickly—too quickly for such things as pondering and poetry. So they say.
The beauty of poetry is in how the reader interprets a jumble of words just so, transforming them into something powerful or mundane, emotive or passionless, joyful or melancholy. Robert Creeley set these words free and, like life itself, we make of his poetry what we will.
Maybe, it serves as a reminder to think slowly. To see the things around us taking place. To use this time more impulsively. To be present for those who are here, now.
“You start earning a million dollars, and you get all the stuff that comes with it. On week one, when you get a nice house with a nice shower, and a nice car, that feels good. But by week two or three, that’s just your shower. That’s just your car. It’s just your house. You’ve stopped noticing all the great things about it. This is a bad feature of human psychology for all the fantastic things in life. Even the best things in life, we will wind up getting used to.” — Laurie Santos, The Knowledge Project with Shane Parrish: #139 Laurie Santos
What do we get used to? We relish that first cup of coffee in the morning, but by the second we’re simply maintaining our energy, akin to filling up the tank in our cars. There’s magic in the ritual of making and savoring that first cup, isn’t there? So why does the novelty wear off so quickly on subsequent cups?
Now take out the coffee analogy and insert any other thing that we begin to take for granted in our lives. The place we live, the car we drive, the people we hold most dear. At what point does routine dull our appreciation for the things we cherish the most in our lives? And more importantly, how do we break ourselves of this mindset?
That’s what the Stoics were pushing themselves towards when they reminded themselves that the entire game is temporary. Memento mori, Carpe diem, Amor Fati… not just clever Latin phrases to throw around at parties, but a way of living with awareness. A way to focus on the now and appreciate where we are. Stuff is temporary, people come and go from our lives, good fortune can turn bad and back again in an instant, and through it all each moment remains a blessing.
We humans get caught up in our annoyances, setbacks and frustrations du jour, but perhaps the worst thing that can ever happen to us is to simply getting used to living the way we do. Same job, same friends and family, same lunch… there’s just no savoring when we’re focused on sameness. Like salt sprinkled over an otherwise bland meal, a good shake of Stoicism offers us the opportunity to savor. For this is our big night out, and we ought to celebrate it for the special occasion it is.
“All around us lies what we neither understand nor use. Our capacities, our instincts for this our present sphere are but half developed. Let us confine ourselves to that till the lesson be learned; let us be completely natural; before we trouble ourselves with the supernatural. I never see any of these things but I long to get away and lie under a green tree and let the wind blow on me. There is marvel and charm enough in that for me.” — Margaret Fuller
Today we bury a part of the family, completing his journey back to the earth. Back to the eternal. Our time together was relatively short, as lifetimes go, but memorable. We all live on in memories, they say. My experience with such things makes me believe it to be so.
Memories are borne out of moments. Moments in turn from living with full awareness of our present sphere. Will we ever master the moment? Probably not, but as a sommelier trains their taste buds to discern the nuances of a wine, we might train our minds for nuance too. And in doing so, savor life more each day.
The thing we generally say when someone passes is, “rest in peace”. But their passing is a message to us too: Memento mori — remember, we all must die. So pay your respects, hug one another and go out and live while there’s still time.
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, You, Reading This, Be Ready
Isn’t the magic in a poem is in its discovery? It’s the chance encounter with a voice from beyond our moment, and the quiet conversation that ensues. Like life itself, we find our stride in this world one encounter, and one lesson, at a time.
Maybe heightened awareness of living is the thing. Poetry offers a new recipe for living. It’s meeting each day as they roll past, relentlessly, until we beach this life and move on to infinity. It’s living each day with curiosity and a yearning to understand. It’s not accepting the beliefs we’ve layered together like a lasagna of closed-mindedness and moving beyond that recipe to find a new way of savoring this life.
Maybe the questions are the thing. Poetry brings forward questions we never thought of before. How do we make the most of our days, and of our encounters? Through work and contribution? Through raising children to be better humans than we are? Are we here to serve as ambassadors to the world? Or simply to find a bit of dark sky to borrow for an evening to reacquaint ourselves with distant cousins? For aren’t we derived from stardust too?
Maybe finally seeing is the thing. Poetry brings us to places previously unseen. This glimpse of new ways of living is a gift, should we accept it. In opening our eyes and living a fuller life than we previously did we transcend who we once were in favor of the potential for a larger life. For what can anyone give us that is greater than now?
Some words, like salut and aloha, mean both hello and goodbye. It reminds me of the nonsensical lyrics of the Beatles song, catchy tune that it is, but which blathers on endlessly about goodbyes and hellos. A simple word that means both is rather handy, don’t you think?
My daughter flew home from across the country, making for a lovely hello, and will join me today in saying goodbye to friends and fellow bloggers Fayaway as they set sail for warmer waters. Goodbyes are rarely as fun as hellos. Isn’t it better all around to say; “until we meet again” Then again, a simple salut would do in all such circumstances.
Hellos and goodbyes are simply placeholders that bookend moments together. We dance on the floor of life for this moment and go our separate ways for awhile. Perhaps we’ll see you out here on the dance floor again sometime. It’s lovely to believe it so, isn’t it? Life is what we make of it, and relationships are very much in line with that. There are people who have lived on the same street with me whom I haven’t seen for more than ten years. And there are people I’d fly across the globe to visit for a couple of days.
Seeing Fayaway in faraway places seems likely and offers poetic possibilities. Yes, I like the elegance of the french “Salut” in such moments. And today I think it might do.
“Sadly it is not only the force of gravity we get used to as we grow up. The world itself becomes a habit in no time at all. It seems as if in the process of growing up we lose the ability to wonder about the world. And in doing so, we lose something central—something philosophers try to restore. For somewhere inside ourselves, something tells us that life is a huge mystery. This is something we once experienced, long before we learned to think the thought.” — Jostein Gaarder,Sophie’s World: A Novel About the History of Philosophy
Gaarder’s premise is sound: We come into the world full of wonder, but as we grow up being alive becomes a habit. We reach a point where we think we’ve seen it all before and grow comfortable with the general act of our daily existence. Each day remains a miracle, but the vast majority of people take it for granted. What a pity.
I’ve been working to break this habit in myself for years through deep immersion in philosophy, poetry, history, travel and the deliberate process of savoring the moment. Sometimes I get it right, sometimes I slip into the routine of the day-to-day. But every day I try to begin with reflection on this miracle of being alive. The blog forces me to stay in this lane, if only for a short while, before work and responsibilities draw my attention elsewhere. But I always strive to return to wonder.
What if instead of returning to wonder we found a way to stay on the dance floor with it? Not in some stupor or drug-induced high, but through deliberate focus on each moment. Turning the habit of living day-to-day on its head and instead embracing heightened awareness and the quiet delight available to us in each encounter along the way. Isn’t that taking the act of living to a higher level?
We all want more wonder and delight in our lives, for it’s the frosting on our cake—our exclamation point on our moments. The thing is, to break the old habit of merely living, we’ve got to favor wonder and make it a regular part of us. Like any habit, it becomes a part of our identity through consistency. That’s putting the wonder in a full life.
“As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.” — Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
“Ye cannot live for yourselves; a thousand fibres connect you with your fellow-men, and along those fibres, as along sympathetic threads, run your actions as causes, and return to you as effects.” — Henry Melvill, from “Partaking in Other Men’s Sins”
(As an aside: Henry lived between 1798–1871, Herman between 1819 – 1891, meaning they were tenants on the planets at the same time for 52 years. I doubt they ever met, but they’re forever linked by the latter quote, often associated with Herman Melville because of the similarities in their names and because people simply grab quotes online and use them without doing basic research beforehand.)
We each live our lives somewhere between responsibility and adventure, don’t we? It’s like our moralist angel is named Henry, while our adventurous devil is named Herman. But life isn’t lived at the extremes? Most of us find ourselves somewhere in between. Our souls want to dance with a calling all its own, and we ought to find the tune that suits us best.
Yet a thousand fibres connect us. Think about the hundreds of thousands of souls called to war just this year in Ukraine and Russia, simply because of the decision of one man. I imagine most of them would say their best life would be living the normal life they had before the world turned upside down. We choose to be who we are within the social and political fabric we exist in, and ought to celebrate the relative freedom to choose.
You might think of Henry as a wet blanket, tossing out themes of cause and effect with such authority, but the reason it resonates is because the truth is woven into his sermon. But so too are the words of Herman. We all hear the tormented call to the coasts of our imagination, those places we’d be but for this other thing we must do first. For some it’s a tropical beach, for some it’s filled with icebergs and polar bears, but it calls just the same. Barbarous is in the eye of the beholder.
Most of us don’t have to live a life mutually exclusive of adventure or responsible productivity. We get to decide what to be and do our best to be it. We’ll each hear calls from the other side, beckoning us to be more adventurous or more responsible. That’s the sound of freedom of choice in a world that doesn’t always offer it in equal shares. We’re privileged to have such options in our brief dance with life. Ultimately, we choose what we lean into to find our balance, and what we let drift away. We ought to be at peace with that.
“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald
Who says beginnings should be saved for New Year’s or spring? Every day offers the same opportunity for transformation. Aside from seasonal planting and certain outdoor sports, a crisp autumn day seems just as appropriate a time to change things up as the first day of spring.
Crispy days conjure memories of the first day of school, or heading off to college or beginning a new season of your favorite fall sport. The connection to beginnings isn’t all that much of a reach after all.
So as the air gets good and crispy, and as the earth tilts just so in the Northern Hemisphere, what are we to do with it?
“If you get stuck, get away from your desk. Take a walk, take a bath, go to sleep, make a pie, draw, listen to music, meditate, exercise; whatever you do, don’t just stick there scowling at the problem. But don’t make telephone calls or go to a party; if you do, other people’s words will pour in where your lost words should be. Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient.“ — Hilary Mantel
Mantel passed away this week, leaving a vast treasure of her words to sift through. Writers are said to live forever, transformed into their words, so long as there are people to read them. In that context, we create our legacy one word at a time. So we ought to make those words as much our own as possible. Aspiring to the level of a Hilary Mantel is surely a worthy, if lofty, objective.
We all get stuck sometimes, and state change often clears that which blocks us. Any productive endeavor benefits from quiet focus time, we know this. My own productivity, thrown off by a schedule off kilter recently, would benefit from a return to structured quiet time.
Routine draws words from hidden places deep within us. Changes to routine inspire new ideas, shake old beliefs, and force a reckoning with priorities. Each serves us when balanced, and undercuts our potential when we tilt too far in either direction. Are we a one trick pony or risk merely surface-level understanding? The answer, always, is somewhere in between. It’s there where we may find those elusive lost words to piece together just so.
“I had taken my station close on the left of Major Andre’s left hand officer; and continued in that station the whole march. The guard marched a short distance when it wheeled to the left, turning a corner of the road, and marched a short distance, when they again wheeled to the left, in order to pass through a fence. Having entered a field, they marched forward a short distance, wheeled to the right, and halted. The ground here was level; a little distance in front was a moderate ascending hill, on the top of which the gallows was erected. In the position where they halted, Major Andre was, for the first time, in view of the gallows. Major Andre here said, ‘Gentlemen, I am disappointed. I expected my request’ (which was to be shot) ‘would have been granted.’ No answer was given, and he continued with his arms locked with those of the two officers. — Dawson, Papers Concerning André
Early one morning, as commuters made their way to work and parents waited for the school bus on street corners throughout town, I made a quick stop to visit the Major John André Monument. André was swept up in the treason of Benedict Arnold and paid the ultimate price when Arnold wouldn’t turn himself in, hung and buried at this spot on 2 October 1780. George Washington himself would lament the death of André, stating that “he was more unfortunate than criminal”.
The Hudson River Valley was once the headquarters for George Washington. The river was a critical transportation hub, and if the British were to control it they would have cut off New England from the rest of the colonies. Benedict Arnold was once a highly-respected leader in the Continental army and the fight to protect the Hudson River and Lake Champlain from British control. But he was increasingly frustrated with his status, feeling like he wasn’t properly honored and rewarded for his leadership. His wife was also a Tory and desired a better position in society. This made him a prime candidate for recruitment by the British turn against the American Colonies.
Major John André, a rising star in the British Army, was chosen to meet with Benedict Arnold to formalize the details of engagement and Arnold’s rewards, both financial and status, for turning against the Americans. Arnold and André met on a warship in the Hudson River and again on shore not very far north from where André’s American journey would end. Unfortunately for André, his warship was chased off by cannon and during his overland journey back to British-controlled territory he was captured in enemy territory while disguised as an American. This made him a spy and subject to execution. That execution would happen on a small hill in what is now Tappan, New York.
“Every attention and respect was paid to Major Andre that it was possible to pay to a man in his situation … every officer and soldier in the army would have lifted both hands for the exchange of Andre for General Arnold. This exchange was offered by General Washington, but refused by General Clinton, the British Commander-in-chief. So the life of a traitor was saved; and Major Andre fell a sacrifice” — Dawson, Papers Concerning André
Major John André was later exhumed from the site and is now buried as a hero at Westminster Abbey. The site of his execution remained unmarked and, like so many historical places, eventually doomed to obscurity. In 1879, a wealthy American named Cyrus W. Field, who laid the first telegraph cable across the Atlantic Ocean, decided to put a monument up honoring Major John André. It makes sense that a man who made his fortune connecting the Old World with the New would seek to honor a dignified officer seen as more unfortunate than criminal. But it would take time for the community to see it the same way. As you might imagine, erecting a monument honoring an enemy soldier associated with the most notorious traitor in American history was unpopular at the time, and there were three attempts to destroy the monument before someone decided to add a plaque honoring George Washington and his army.
You’d never know the monument was there, in the middle of a small traffic circle on a quiet residential street, if you didn’t seek it out. Such is the nature of the Hudson River Valley today, rooted in history but built for the future. The former encampment and small hill where Major John André met his fate are today simply suburbia in Metro New York. Yet history still whispers here, and reminds us that nation-defining heroism and treachery once played out right here.
