To thine own self be true

“How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book?” —Walden

To which I would add, Montaigne-ishly, bloggily–“How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of himself?”

“And this gray spirit yearning in desire/To follow knowledge like a sinking star,/Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.”–Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”

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Very much the possibilities in context, process, and choices at all times. Very much who considers, contemplates, and responds to these, personally or individually. And so you are back to the person gazing, pondering, reacting to whatever. And I think the imagination of that person, finally, the capacity to imagine and empathize. (I will just add that you can’t empathize without imagination or exercises/’exorcises’ of imagination.) What makes life so interesting is the individual’s processing of the information of possibilities (e.g., life, love, language, nature), what can or might be done, what patterns, understandings, and insights that emerge, and finally whether that individual can articulate or express those (sometimes creatively, sometimes practically).

So, possibilities–an infinite number thereof with the interesting, fascinating aspect of a human imagination and sensibility responding to those, and then what happens as a result–a play, a dance, a love affair, a new career, an enhanced relationship, a developing talent, a facility to do and accomplish certain unique things. Quite wide open really. And again, back to possibilities. Possibilities hidden, inherent, untapped, never previously explored, or articulated, possibly even shared.

And the imagination, as Walt Whitman put it–“I am large, I contain multitudes”–an idea echoed by Northrop Frye in The Educated Imagination about the human imagination ‘swallowing’, subsuming everything, or at least as many possibilities as it desires or wishes, and being able to share–through teaching, through creativity, through example with others. An internalization followed by an outward expression and sharing thereof. Much like the gifts of others assimilated, then reciprocated or broadcast, expressed and shared with others. The egoic-based trip initially, the individual process, the personal journey then turned outward toward the world and others.

I was thinking earlier this morning about being a human silo, a depository of life’s information and knowledge, understandings and insights–how this potential is ultimately ‘tappable’ like, metaphorically, any other kind of natural (we are of nature) resource.
People talk of great minds, genius, dreamers or visions, but it is very much true. Imagination-centered, rather asexually/platonically incidentally, a kind of pureness and primariness of response and agency. It is that that creates or facilitates–a readiness, a capacity and confidence, to assume and express the universe, Prufrockily,

And so it is that the educated (as Frye put it) or the enhanced and developed imagination–an ultimate form or organ of consciousness facilitates ‘the way’ to all possibilities, to deal with all and any changes, challenges, limits, limitations, or difficulties. It is the transcendent and most ascendant aspect of the human being, coupled with conscious or unconscious will to survive and strive for, (very Tennyson’s “Ulysses”–Imagination, Will (including choices) and Spirit as One). In that possibility, the most integrated possible form of individual, person, and human life.

“As I looked around for my possibilities”--Paul Simon, “A Hazy Shade of Winter“, Bookends

I suppose I could just as well have used the term “catalyst” instead of or along with “facilitator”, remembering both my more active music days as well as teaching and conferencing careers. The term goes along well with “possibilitarian”. And I may as well add the “creator” part for what was once a teacher, a more active musician and player, and writer and editor. Those who are possibilitarians sooner or later become ‘agents’, ‘agencies’, and forces in the lives of others, as well as their own.

I have always been interested in possibilities right from an early age, sort of an extended child who was curious about what happened if…. In particular, I have been interested always in making things happening, playing and performing, which in turn led naturally to playing music, teaching, and finally writing.

For much of my life, that possibilitarian side manifested itself in more external sorts of activity and endeavor, tangible stuff that others could see as well. There were children, ‘clearly stretched’ students and fellow teachers, songs, poems, books, a play company, a poetry trio, many shows and gigs, and so forth. Always it was about working with others, often ‘stretching’ them, offering them insights, showing them connections, and frequently revealing them and their own possibilities to themselves. Looking back, this was and has been the great unspoken drive, motivation, and purpose of my life.

I have been retired, largely, to spend more time with family, but mainly exploring my own interests and finding out more of who and what I am. It has been a very satisfying trip so far–both the past decade, and more recently the past three years, narrowing down to this past year of blogging and incredibly fulfilling writing focused on consciousness–a largely inner, spiritual trip. Things have gone very well and I am happier than I have ever been with where I’m at and who I am.

As always, it is the possibilities that interest–less ‘the work to be done’ as many, still working, would put it–but rather what new insights and understandings are to be had about a wide variety of topics, in addition to what might be possible in the presence and company of this person or that one.

One particular current interest, for example, is the connection between the external and inner, the physical with mental and spiritual. Somewhere in all of that–imagination, fantasy, metaphor, facilitation, and perhaps more depths of integration. Nature continues to intrigue, particularly the opposites of gentle stillness or peace vs. The Wild–a duality ever in process. Then there is the olde aesthetic interest in beauty whether in nature or works of art; (again, this has become more of a spiritual quest rather than a superficial retreat to some, for me former, Tennysonian Palace of Art). Anyway, in that, some of the main, current, unfolding possibilities.

This blog has certainly been quite the trip and revelation. (Though my work–of old– is done, my personal journey is ongoing and seemingly far from complete.) More than anyone else probably, I have learned so much through this egoic e-expressiveness the past year. It has been quite the voyage/venture turned inside out. As always, there are the concrete tasks and preoccupations of basic living that await in another day–pulling in and reading the morning newspaper (very old school), feeding the backyard birds, creating a nice breakfast, before getting on with what needs to be done. And full-moonishly, no doubt, some surprises will emerge as the day makes itself, unfolds, like this spontaneous early morning entry–writing that writes itself, as this possibilitarian enters the day, curious yet content. As always.

“‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.”–Tennyson, “Ulysses”

He had come to New England in the third quarter of his life, had come to where the October highway forked and he could see now that the road he was on curved left and was, in fact, the main thoroughfare through the valley. Although he had driven much of Massachussetts this long weekend, he was ready to try a side road.

In his mirror, he saw an approaching right road that disappeared into a grove of golden trees. When he was able to, he pulled the rented car over and watched the long line of cars behind him safely pass his. And when he turned off, he knew instantly that he had taken the right road after all.

He pulled over past the first stretch of trees where leaves thickly covered the road.
There was no sound of traffic although he could look back and see the highway ever busy with vehicles shining in the afternoon sun. Past the ditch on the other side across from him was a sleepy farm with mending wall. He wondered who chose to live here, wondered what this place might mean to the people who lived here with a proud red-flag mailbox at the end of their driveway. His buried life seemed far away now, quite irrelevant like a stack of accumulating, unmarked essays. The sky back in Alberta had been grey-white when he left it, half-expecting snow.

He drew in now and looked up for the Sunday sun moving without effort through the tall trees, or was it just leaf-heaven that sighed and moved this moment ever so slightly like his uncertain soul over a once-black road? He could not see more than fifty yards ahead from where he stood, but it hardly mattered. He wondered if the sidetrack could get any better. Hopeful, he got back in the car and drove farther along. The road continued rising gently, going up and up in a gradual succession of knolls and denser bush.

It was about this time he realized he was literally in another world–an obscure hamlet with a faded white nineteenth-century church. There were no stores, no modern encroachments anywhere, just houses tucked here and there like attitudes. No people anywhere. He began to feel the limits of his small car as it struggled up a long hill. The road gave way to mountain grade as his ears popped. Around him the trees retained their gold, now mixed with ferns and moss. On one side, he caught sight of a stream running down, joining the ditch on his right. In all his adult life, he had never seen such deep, significant colours. So lost and absorbed was he, that he had almost no time at all to react to the spooked deer–a doe–darting across in front of the startled car.

He pulled over at once, more aware of his breathing. He got out and leaned against the car, strangely dizzy from the suddeness of life springing momentously into his post-lunch consciousness.

Completely covered by leaves, the road itself could no longer be said to exist in any tangible way at this elevation. This many miles from the Interstate, it would take an act of imagination or faith to bring it back to life.

Acorns bounced ridiculously off the rental hood. He smoked now, slowly, and realized for the second time how distant everything was that had manacled his yearning fall soul like dead history. He thought again of the doe and wondered why it had chanced a death-dodge with a stranger. He stood now looking about as far as he could into the undergrowth where the green mixed freely with gold. His mind said `Wither?`and he gave the word voice. His feet felt too tired to walk now and he wasn`t sure if movement would make any difference.

This, then was the stillest, most perfect moment he had ever known. Like the moment after love, a shared solitude more real than the imagined cares of deadlines, airports, or other lives to lead. More real perhaps than the memory of lost youth or failed loves.
He felt the muses everywhere about him like the leaves that continued their never-ending randomly-scripted departures to earth. But there really was no point in trying to write any of this down, to take the time to think of words. He reached, instead, through the open car window and pulled out a camera. One picture, he thought. One moment before moving on. The shutter clicked. The only sound in the sacred silence.

Leaning back against the car to get his bearings, he breathed out, shivered, and zipped up his jacket. He felt the forest`s call now deep in his heart, knew in some strange way that he was no longer alone or would ever be lost again no matter which road he travelled. And some part of him would remain here forever by the side of a nameless road–a small part of an otherwise mapless journey, in the wisdom of this great, unexpected tranquillity.

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Written on one of my typically unconventional fall leave get-aways while my colleagues worked at school back in Edmonton. (One colleague told me “Boy, that’s a trip I’d like to take when I retire.” Timing is often critical; I was ready to go–work or money did not matter in the least.)This piece records a major spiritual turning point in my life. I found a significant missing piece I had been searching for in all the previous falls of my life. It could only have happened in solitude, at the beginning of one October on a quiet wooded road in New England. I have never regretted following my bliss since. Ever.

Series of pictures from my two 1990s literary New England wonder-tours. This sequence focuses on places associated with Robert Frost.

In this picture, West-Running Brook, running by road into Derry New Hampshire. Frost wrote a famous poem about it.

To activate any photos not showing automatically, click re x on any picture.

Robert Frost Farm, Derry, New Hampshire, his first house, bought for him by a grandfather so he could try farming. (Frost quickly failed at farming.)

Hyla Brook, in woods back of farm; subject of poem of the same title

mending wall, subject of poem of the same title, in woods back of Derry farm

his second house, in Franconia, New Hampshire

Frost’s desk facing White Mountains, second floor of house