Alexandersmap

    Tag: T.S. Eliot

    • This is Our Dance

      At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
      Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
      But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
      Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
      There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
      I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
      — T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton

      “Of what is the body made? It is made of emptiness and rhythm. At the ultimate heart of the body, at the heart of the world, there is no solidity… there is only the dance.”
      — George Leonard, The Silent Pulse: A Search for the Perfect Rhythm that Exists in Each of Us

      Read enough and you begin to hear echoes in the work of one writer to the next. As with music, there are only so many notes to play with, and sometimes you hear the hint of one song whispering to you from another. So it is that Leonard’s quote reminded me of T.S. Eliot’s poem. Eliot and Leonard aren’t really writing about the same thing, and yet they each come back to the dance with phrasing that catches one’s attention. Whispers across time and place, where past and future are gathered, dancing in the wind.

      Our lives are stillness and motion, emptiness and rhythm, past and present with a dream of tomorrows. We write and observe and play with words and thoughts and ideas. Just as we live our lives as best we can given the circumstances, so we pull together everything we have in the moment and write what we can with what we have at our disposal. Sometimes we find magic, sometimes we simply live to fight another day. We’re changed either way.

      I write this, not from stillness, but in the midst of the dance. Like that hike through the wild mustard I wrote about yesterday, the path is uncertain and each step presents a new challenge. The only answer is to push on through, finding the path with each step. This is our dance.

      Do you see the path? It’s hiding right in front of us.

    • Between Two Waves

      We shall not cease from exploration
      And the end of all our exploring
      Will be to arrive where we started
      And know the place for the first time.
      Through the unknown, unremembered gate
      When the last of earth left to discover
      Is that which was the beginning;
      At the source of the longest river
      The voice of the hidden waterfall
      And the children in the apple-tree

      Not known, because not looked for
      But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
      Between two waves of the sea.
      Quick now, here, now, always–
      A condition of complete simplicity
      (Costing not less than everything)
      And all shall be well and
      All manner of thing shall be well
      When the tongues of flames are in-folded
      Into the crowned knot of fire
      And the fire and the rose are one.
      — T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

      Writing actively, it follows that I actively think of writing more than the norm, but really, I’m just a student of life making up for lost time, before I awakened. I’m always on the lookout for a phrase or sentence that resonates with me on a deeper level. Partly this is admiration for the turn of a particular stack of words, and partly because it offers a train of thought I’d love to explore more in the future. Like an engaged conversation between two people, words prompt. Our engagement with others draws us out of ourselves and places our thoughts into the universe. The ripple that results may transcend space and time, as Eliot’s ripple surely has.

      Eliot observed in Little Gidding that “every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, every poem an epitaph”. Being actively aware of what is being said is a talent of the truly engaged. I’m still a work in progress, as my bride would remind me (funny that I don’t always seem to hear what she swears she just told me—A sign of a wandering mind, or is it a mind slowly slipping into the abyss? Perhaps it’s simply what is heard but half-heard?).

      When I do drift off into the abyss one day, I’d like to leave behind a few cogent thoughts before I go. We ought to feel the urgency in the moment, knowing we are but billion-year-old carbon making a weekend of it in our present form. This present mix will soon reshuffle, as sure as the sun rises. There’s a resounding call for us to pay attention in such moments. Eliot, himself reshuffled, capture my jumble of words better with his own: “the communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living”.

      My bride would add that I ought to pay more attention to the living as well, but my occasional Walter Mitty moments aside, I’ll make a case that I pay attention to the important details. Every moment matters, but some resonate a bit more. If we focused on everything we’d focus on nothing, after all. Playing the long game, and with a lens focused on infinity, is it any wonder that every sentence both matters a great deal and sometimes gets lost in the surf?

      The trick is knowing what to pay attention to in any given moment. We’re all works in progress on our march towards excellence. Knowing that we’ll never quite reach it doesn’t mean we should quit. Our imperfections are a sign of our untapped potential. At least that’s the promise in our present condition.

    • Freeze and Thaw

      In the dark time of the year.
      Between melting and freezing
      The soul’s sap quivers.
      – T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

      There are more famous lines from this poem, but this is the time of sap buckets and lines run between maple trees in New England, so forgive me for straying from the popular. For these are the days of freezing and thawing – a confused mix of awakening and nature turning a cold shoulder on us. A reminder that warmer days are coming but we aren’t there just yet.

      And so it is with the vaccine and a pandemic that hasn’t quite finished its business with us, despite casual disregard and letting up of guards. We aren’t quite there, but surely we’re closer. So persevere; for we’ll get through the darkness, together in our isolation.

      Eliot wrote Little Gidding during the darkest days of the Blitz, set it aside in dissatisfaction and returned to it again to publish it during slightly brighter days in 1942. Who would ever think of 1942 as brighter days? Someone who lived through the Blitz of 1940-41 I suppose.

      So who are we to complain about a turn to colder days just as the sun began to warm us once again? Who are we to complain about wearing a mask for just a bit longer? Are we that precious and self-absorbed? Focus on the brighter days ahead, but stay the course in the meantime.

      As the snow and ice retreats for another season, the mud rises to meet our favorite footwear in a cold, gooey grip. The warmest days bring swirls of bugs celebrating their brief dance with life. And we, the comfortable masses, find reasons to complain about the mud and bugs and even the miraculously fast release of vaccines to the world that just seem a bit too slow. For all the joy of thaw, we seem to prefer the angst of freeze.

      Spring is upon us, despite it all. The sap flows with each freeze and thaw, and drips slowly into buckets. Drop by drop, the buckets fill. It’s the only way, really. You can’t very well cut the tree in half to pour out the sap. Not if you hope to have another season anyway. No, progress is slow that way. And offers lessons in patience and perseverance. Of going with the flow and staying the course.

    • What You Are Not

      In order to arrive at what you are not
      You must go through the way in which you are not.
      And what you do not know is the only thing you know
      And what you own is what you do not own
      And where you are is where you are not.
      – T.S. Eliot, East Coker

      This is the way: we march on through the unknown, discovering the world and ourselves in each step. That’s part of getting older and, too infrequently, wiser. We don’t know our identity until we’ve reached beyond that which we’ve done before. Life is the sorting it all out part in between steps. Knowing with certainty that this thing is not my thing. But maybe the next thing is… or maybe not.

      I know I don’t have all the answers, but I do know that the more we learn and grow and experience, the more we recognize ourselves in the patterns and energy around us. The more we encounter that which is not us, the more we seek another way. Life is learning to navigate the channel even when it isn’t clearly marked. You experience a few bumps along the way but you don’t sink unless you’re reckless.

      If we have any freedom at all eventually we stumble into uncharted territory. Some turn right around and go back to where they came from, trusting the familiar over the uncertain. But life changes around you whether you’re a willing participant or not. So embrace the things you don’t know and revel in the discovery.

      You can’t possibly know what being a parent is like until you’ve had children. And you can’t really understand until you’ve nudged them through each stage of their own lives. I say this knowingly, but also knowing what I don’t know as they grow beyond the previously familiar. And so we learn together and embrace the unknown.

      This is just the next step in the journey for each of us. We all reached the pandemic and experienced the changes it made in us. Some grew, others crawled to darker places. But we were all transformed over twelve months and will be again as we rediscover the changes in those we once thought we knew. If it wasn’t the pandemic it would have been graduations or career changes or major life events. Change is part of the game.

      Where you were is not where you are now. And so it follows that where you are is where you are not going to be soon enough. Accept that for what it is and step boldly into the unknown. For there you’ll find yourself.

    • We Must Be Still and Still Moving

      Old men ought to be explorers
      Here and there does not matter
      We must be still and still moving
      Into another intensity
      For a further union, a deeper communion
      Through the dark cold and empty desolation,
      The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
      Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
      – T.S. Eliot, East Coker

      Beginning at the end as I do in quoting this masterpiece is admittedly the easy path, but seems appropriate given the context. I’m roughly where TS Eliot was when he wrote East Coker – middle of life (hopefully). Or maybe just past the middle. But who’s counting? Days are days, and here and there does not matter. Time will tell, as it always does.

      This blogger has settled into this rhythm of still and still moving. Moments of quiet contemplation, deep reading and exploration interspersed too infrequently with mountaintop adventures and faraway places. Thoughts of past exploration and schemes of future possibility fill the mind, and are betrayed by more than a few posts. We aren’t sharks, always moving, but humans immersed in life in all its complexity. The thoughtful wrestle with the same ideas, the masses distract themselves with media and games.

      Old folks ought to be explorers. And us not-so-old folks too. We ought to be out seeing the world, exploring vast waters and rounding bends. Bridging gaps in language and understanding and toasting the folly of it all with old and newfound friends. Catching a sideways glance and throwing it back. Dancing in celebration and settling into deep conversations. We will again, we see that now. Where will you go? What will you do with the time you’re given?

      This human journey leads to another, more intense place, or perhaps merely to stillness. Who are we to know, really? Do you choose logic or faith? Which is the real leap? Our path is one of tapping our potential, to struggle and explore the darkest and brightest days alike. To make the best we can of ourselves. To turn it all over and understand where we came from. This seems to me the way, for the end is the beginning. In some ways, we’ve known that all along, haven’t we?

      Beginning

    • What Place Is This?

      This form, this face, this life
      Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
      Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
      The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
      What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
      And woodthrush calling through the fog
      My daughter.
      – T.S. Eliot, Marina

      I’m heading for granite islands and likely a fair share of fog this weekend. In a year of revised expectations, I remain hopeful that this will play out as planned. To travel once again, even if regionally, is a blessing. It’s been a long year, and we’re only 3/4 of the way there still. Local trips sprinkled onto the calendar offer a bit of seasoning when needed. So why don’t we head towards adventure instead of nesting in the house for yet another weekend? Who doesn’t want to be counted amongst the awakened?

      This poem begins with a quote from Seneca from Herculus Furens that sets the tone: “Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga? ubi sum? sub ortu solis, an sub cardine glacialis ursae?” which means (I’m told) “What place is this, what region, what quarter of the world? Where am I? Under the rising of the sun or beneath the wheeling course of the frozen bear?”

      When you come across a reference like this it confirms that we’re all building off each other, as I read and draw from Seneca so did T.S. Eliot in his time. There’s that Great Conversation turning up once again. And it reminds me that we’re all roughly the same, just born at different times in different places. With different challenges, overcome or overwhelmed, but part of our story either way. Herculus Furens was a tragedy, full of darkness and moral questions. This year seems to be a Seneca tragedy unfolding before us, only partially read. How it ends is anyone’s guess. But I’m an optimist, and hopeful for brighter days.

      Quit hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga? The questions of a traveler and also every person living in 2020, not completely sure where they’ve ended up. Or where they might end up. And I find myself asking the same questions, wondering about where I am and, if fortune smiles, the places I will go. And more and more, I look northward for answers.

    • Pressing On

      “The opposite of quitting is rededication. The opposite of quitting is an invigorated new strategy designed to break the problem apart.” – Seth Godin

      “For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.” – T.S. Eliot, East Coker

      These times challenge all of us, but some more than others.  Perseverance seems a quaint notion, but really what else do we have but the courage to press on in the face of it all?  I write this knowing I’m less challenged than some, more than others.  I’m one of the lucky ones, it seems, and yet life keeps throwing curveballs at me just as it does to you.  I believe the way we react to anything is just as important as that which happens to us.  Short of an abrupt ending of our existence, we have this choice of how we deal with the cards we’re dealt in any given moment.  I hope to play my hand well today and in the one to maybe 16,000 days I have left (That’s a lot of blog posts: I hope I don’t repeat myself too much).

      I pulled this Seth Godin quote out of a draft I’d done six years ago, well before I started writing every day, well before COVID-19, well before the current political climate, and well before I became the current version of myself.  We’ve all changed, really, some in profound ways, others less so, during the last six years.  In some ways the world is worse, in others it’s steadily improving.  We can say the same of ourselves.  And for all my tongue-in-cheek humor about repeating my blog posts, I won’t be the same person next week, let alone in twenty years, so I figure the material will change accordingly.

      The other day I had a great idea for a novel.  I immediately started writing down the core plot and completed a first paragraph that stirred me.  I’ve been waiting for the muse to tap me on the shoulder and offer up a nugget like this for some time, and I hope to do it justice.  But I know it will die on the vine if I don’t chip away at it every day.  And so I’ll keep writing, keep researching, keep reinvigorating and breaking it apart.  You’ll know when it’s ready – this one will take awhile to get it right.  Anyway, I believe the idea came to me because I’m showing the world and those random muses flying by that I’m committed to seeing it through.  To doing the work that matters.  Ultimately life is about showing up, and I’ve been doing that for 702, er, 703 posts now.  And I’ve got my eye on 1000 and beyond.  Whether anyone reads it hardly matters, it’s transformative for the author.

      Shortly after that idea for a novel, I had another idea for a business.  Not a leave my career business, but a nice side hustle business that would be complimentary to my life after work.  Funny how these things all come up like this, fully baked in the mind.  It makes you wonder what else is up there between the ears, waiting to be set free.  I do know that the reading and thinking and writing all open the trap door, letting ideas out and capturing a few along the way that would otherwise drift on by.  The rest is just persistence.  Showing up and doing what must be done, today and those tomorrows too.  There are plenty of quotes out there from Seth Godin, Tim Ferriss and others about the tremendous value of blogging every day.  I’m finding that value compounding, not financially, but in creative output and opportunities that open up from the consistent effort and the openness to receive the world.  That’s reason enough to press on, writing today and tomorrow too.

    • Measuring Out Life in Coffee Spoons

      “Do I dare
      Disturb the universe?
      In a minute there is time
      For decisions and revisions which a
      minute will reverse.

      For I have known them all already,
      known them all:—
      Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
      I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
      I know the voices dying with a dying fall
      Beneath the music from a farther room.
      So how should I presume?” – T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

      I wonder if I would have enjoyed the company of T.S. Eliot.  I’m fairly sure I’d have hit it off with Mary Oliver, and with Robert Frost, but I don’t always click with old T.S.  But this poem, one of his most famous, offers that bold question; Do I dare disturb the universe?  and I smile, for I too feel like I’ve measured out my life with coffee spoons. Maybe there’s more to T.S. than I originally thought. The better question would be whether he’d enjoy my company? That has to be earned too: Want to be in the conversation? Have something to say.

      To write publicly is to answer the call.  Whether the universe chooses to pay attention or not is another story, but in chipping away at it one small measure at a time, we see more, and put more out there to be seen, we get better. Roosevelt’s man in the arena comes to mind. Be on the field doing it. Nothing else matters. Is there futility in the work? Perhaps, but the work offers its own path in the universe. I write knowing there’s so much more to it than this. This is showing up, it’s not poking the bear and disturbing the universe. Provocation requires more skin in the game. Blood and sweat mixing in the dirt. There’s more to do.