To thine own self be true

Simply put, someone or something either is or isn’t. He, she, or it exists and has being or doesn’t. You’ll recall that life starts and ends that way in the form of presence or non-presence. In school, students were either present or absent (that is, not-present). A feeling went with that. One either felt like one was there (in class) or wasn’t (as we or someone else noted an empty desk). In some cases, we were the ones who were not present–at home with the mumps, skipping class, and so forth.

But with the experience of being absent from the group at school came another impression and that was that presence was a subjective state and that one could still experience presence and the presence of absent others and other situations even when in a changed scene or setting. Presence was potentially something one felt, imagined, and experienced all on one’s own.

As well, presence was not just something experienced in relation to environments. One could be thought of as a presence within a family, experiencing the presence of parents and siblings. Or one was aware of the presence of animals via owning a pet or visiting a zoo. Perhaps one experienced the presence of nature, as in the morning when stepping out into the freshness of morning air or when travelling to a memorable place such as the mountains or seaside. Poet William Blake said this best, perhaps: “To see a world in a grain of sand,/ And a heaven in a wild flower,/ Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,/ And eternity in an hour.” To know presence, then, is to connect and possibly transcend.

Most of us know, though, that presence is often or mostly transitory and ephemeral. And it is dependent ultimately on the presence of whichever people you choose to consider, including yourself. One day someone is there, another he or she is not, and connections and entire worlds are suddenly, conspicuously absent, vanished, or blotted out by absence, death or memory losses. There is great value, meaning, and purpose in the simple fact of lived, shared, and experienced presence, a fact often only fully known, understood, missed, and appreciated belatedly. As Joni Mitchell once put it, “you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”

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No connection is possible without others, without presence. Wherever each of us is, our presence is capable of being experienced by others.

But do e-mails, text messages and social media network sites do justice to presence? (For one thing, they significantly omit the physical human voice which is our main, unique, expressive, identifying self.) Are they as good, strong, or personal as a phone call or a Skype communication (the latter with the extra advantage of mediated visual presence)? When it comes down to it, would you rather talk to someone via mediated electronic forms or spend time face-to-face with the presence of the same live in-person human being? What does live in-person presence give us that other mediated communications can’t?

Presence and non-presence are explored further in the selections that follow…

It was time now for love’s new song. His salvation lay far beyond her imagined graces. It was time now to give thanks, to burn all mementos. He would sing of her praises beyond their conclusion. It was time at last for a song beyond seasons. A song beyond the knives and ashes of particular loves. A song beyond death, unwitholding and dazzling in its hopeful affects. In solitude once more, they withstand the changes in tides and reason, begin again the pas de deux of dream and spirit, resplendent like the dancing waves, strength unto strength. May this, their lost joy illumine forever some blessed isle or quiet hill. The spirit of forgotten seeds shall whisper now. Hear it speaking to the many–“Cast aside thy lowliness and be magnificent once more. Though their shadows be gone, their vision remains like remembered touch or stained glass moment. Life, breath and firmament shall make anew the greenness that hath faded from their fields. Gather unto thee another and sing glad the praises of the love-fallen saints. Come now to know this way, this bliss, this peace, this sacrifice, this touch, this wonder, this undying faith, this goodness, this heart and exaltation, this henceforth and forevermore, this beauty and its beholding, this spring promise and new awakening, this imagination and most humble blessing, this beatitude and prayer, this grace and glory, as it was in the beginning, in this world without end…”

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Still there are positive sides to removal as illustrated in this ‘freed’ prose poem (originally a stanza-ed work). And in the process of removal, the best of a special connection can be preserved and celebrated. And so we may move forward having learned many valuable life and love lessons that will stay with us for the rest of our lives…

“So long lives this…” said Shakespeare in one of his sonnets; that is, our ‘compensations’ may include a transcendent immortality bestowed by the poet upon another…

But what is finally bestowed is there for the benefit of others, as well–the beautiful gift that is love.

You ask for the dream
like a child
set on ice cream
at a Saturday circus

You yearn for old
calendars, broken clocks
& promise to keep
your corner clear of webs

You want to retell
your famous life-story
to poets & editors
recorders of time

But most of all
you ache inside
for the touch of
someone else

nestled close beside you
breath warm along your hair
whispering dark wishes
in the still nights
of your room

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The best and most of connection per se. The desire to connect closely and to be connected intimately with someone else. Very simple, simply stated.

Our earliest sense is that of being simultaneously connected and removed. Attached, literally, to our mothers, and yet somehow, separate, living separate lives especially from the point of umbilical cord severance. We go on from that critical physical juncture –experiencing and feeling a combination of the two states.

In our childhoods, we become known by our unique names, as separate entities, and, indeed, we are conscious of such from a very early age, what British philosopher Alan Watts called the “skin-encapsulated ego”. For many, that is our essential separateness with the attendant separate sense of consciousness that goes with personal identity and individual personality. We often feel and think differently from others, experiencing things differently and uniquely. “Although we know that on some level we are always connected, our most common experience is one of estrangement.” (Margot Adler)

And yet there is a basis for connection between us all because of our common humanity–gender, ethnic, racial, and physical differences aside. We have many characteristics in common because we are all homo sapiens. And, for many of us, there is a desire to connect or to experience connection as much as possible. This is reflected in our common need for family, friends, mates, role models, and heroes. For some, the connection may be to a religion, to a political/social model or philosophy, or to nature (Shakespeare’s “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”). Often the search for connection is for one person or thing that gives us a feeling of fulfillment, and a sense of life purpose.

The states of being connected or removed, two ends of a continuum, so to speak, also lead to conflicts, often irresoluble conflicts or binds. We talk of having mixed feelings about something or someone, sometimes to the point of being removed or separated from that which or those whom we love very deeply. And, within ourselves, too, we may one day find and come to recognize that we are, after all is said and done, mostly removed or connected by nature, living out a removed and connected ‘dance’ between opposites that never ends and is, in some ways, the most puzzling human paradox of all.

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Pretty basic, but potentially illuminating in a given moment as to how we feel about someone or something else. I think our ‘skin-encapsulated ego” often gets in the way of connection with others; it’s just the way we’re biologically built. Ego and ego-consciousness removes and separates us from others, especially from others’ experiences, which we can never totally understand since we are not them, so to speak.

At best, we can only empathize and identify with others which is usually as good as it gets in matters of connected connectedness. Having said all that, yes, we have a common humanity and common structures and behaviors that fundamentally connect people (and animals).

No doubting we spend a fair bit of time seeking and maintaining connection; something there often is which does not like removal or the state of being removed. Mixed feelings enter into the picture sooner or later. At any given moment, we are either connected or removed, and satisfied or restless about that relative condition.

In A River Runs Through It, for instance, Norman’s conflicts about his brother Paul exemplify the two states. He would like to stay connected with Paul and help him, but his brother has a penchant for being an individual and going his own way as well as a desire to keep his life separate from and removed from his brother and family. Removed is simply who and what he is as a person. As is also pointed out, despite his tragic removedness, his family remains mournfully connected to him with their various unresolved feelings of neverending connection.

As in that book and movie, connected and removed states constantly play out themselves in most family or personal relationships. And so there are usually mixed feelings about these states as they pertain to ourselves and the many others in our lives.

(in memory of Glen)

arrive in darkness
another dead soul
seeking refuge:
room key, elevators
sauna, ice & pay tv

but open drapes
in the dawn to
a still-life mountain
& the lake huge
with frost

nothing moves
for at least 10 mins.
except the sun
herding a troop of trees
up a ridge

& a solitary skater
pirouetting across
the swept ice
of a postcard morn

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Connected consciousness meets wish fulfilment. The chateau was and is at Lake Louise. I had stayed there for conferences, but never before with late snow in the spring. In the ’80s, my textbook writing partner and I were there judging the poetry entries of our city newspaper’s annual writing contest.

As usual, the best stuff writes itself as this did. The consciousness is particularly active and ready to record in the right context. Identifying, in turn, with the escape to the hotel, the clarity of morning thought, the grand landscape itself, and finally the lone human being enjoying the solitude, I connected to him, and –as in “Distress call”–he was me and I was him. Wish fulfilment is behind much of (my) writing. A heady, connected moment of being. Much of man and nature (in its more peaceful forms) rolls out like that for me.

I heard you going down
again for the last time,
saw a familiar hand waving,
remembered that face
from another time.

You were easy to rescue.
I know the ways of quicksand,
recall my own head
disappearing
as I called out a name.

Remember too, the good air
I breathed again onshore,
remember the touch and smile
of a kindness past caring.

Lifeline, how could I forget
those cries for help,
yours and mine both
mixed now together
in one saved voice?

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How could one, indeed? Once you’ve been there, you never forget how isolated and alone a person can get or feel. Connected consciousness via empathy. And once that connected, perhaps never that apart ever again.

Something similar, I understand, occurs when ordinary people go to the rescue of complete strangers, even when the risks are very high. When interviewed, the rescuers frequently talk about how it was like the person in peril was they themselves. No distance between the two in the connected consciousness of rescue. And so maybe we do save ourselves reciprocally when we save others, and may live to be lucky enough to return the favor.

You were the rarest book of all,
for me, the ultimate edition.
Much of you had been unread
though you remained in great shape,
unfaded and unmarked.
Crisp and fine,
inscribed to me only,
a true collectible.

Bibiliophile that I am,
I had never come across
such definitive copy.
Nothing chipped or shelf-cocked
about you.
A trim folio, unpaginated,
with no slipcase.
Your spine sunned
but binding intact.

I had no blurb to go by
but dedicated myself
to your sole acquisition.
Your front matter
and end-pages skim-read
as I turned you                                                                                                                     over in my hands, savouring
each distinguishing point.
Your non-gilt edges
and errata were all forgiven.
I loved most your imprint
your laid-ins
and variant proofs.

For me, as issued,
you were First Thus.
No bookplate ever
for you, o precious tome.

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To begin with, a fun exploration of the connected consciousness of book reader and collector. There is, similarly, as the metaphors pile up, a consciousness of what constitutes both special, desirable book and person. Collecting and ownership being what they are, there is also a lot to be said for the respectful and appreciative connection. There is, after all, a difference between people and things, no matter how similar they may be described.

Finally, there is an irony to that which is older or out-of-print. That book or person may turn out to be the true collectible, the worthiest goal or object of desire.

E. M. Forster’s “Only connect” is probably the truest two-word statement ever uttered. And one can connect on many levels: between oneself and others, between one and nature, and between one and any work of art, be it film, book, painting, or piece of music.

Connection is a state that starts as early as a baby returning a parent’s gaze. We also feel connection to family, others, and our various environments before we begin attending school. Connection usually means that one consciousness recognizes the existence, presence, and consciousness of others. In that sense, there is an inner connection, not just the exterior connection or superficial glancing off ‘the other’ like a couple of billiard balls on the table of life. One of the challenges of living is the extent to which we can connect with the consciousness of ‘the other’, whether in the form of person, situation, object or surroundings.

Our minds and egos typically predispose us to living mostly in terms of self; as expressed by songwriter Paul Simon–“I am a rock. I am an island.” Most of us live inside ourselves and see and relate to the ‘outer world’ in terms of our selves. The challenge often is to recognize the common humanity of other people or our similarity to other species such as animals struggling to survive possible ecological disaster or planetary crisis. There is, then, a large central bedrock of consciousness that connects everything on Earth, and it is that basic field of consciousness recognition that holds the possibility of significant individual growth and positive personal learning.

For instance, when you read a book and are moved by the experiences and ideas of real people or fictional characters, you and your awareness or consciousness are changed by that process. You may end up feeling as if the characters or people are you and feel an indefinable or inexplicable close connection to them. Likewise, if you are on a team that wins a championship, there is a bond between the team members that connects them in a lasting, significant way. Much the same thing happens when people go to a school reunion and remember and relive those old days, roles, and events. There is a sharing of consciousness that accompanies the reconnection.

Hence, consciousness is potentially the important aspect of connection. Just consider the perceptions, awarenesses, recognitions, knowledge, understandings, insights, impressions, and appreciations that occur in such key, moving, and memorable moments.

“Making mental connections is our most crucial learning tool, the essence of human intelligence to forge links; to go beyond the given; to see patterns, relationship, context.”
(Marilyn Ferguson)

And, too–returning to Forster’s quote about relationships–the best of what happens between any two people is often simply the agreements and connected consciousness—the shared experiences and mutual learning that occur in those very close ties. It is the connected consciousness that is the greatest value of whatever significant connections.

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It is difficult to talk about connection without mentioning consciousness. When we seek to connect, we seek to know more about who or what we are connecting with. We seek an awareness that is a vital part of connection. And to a large extent, our connections won’t happen or be significant unless they presuppose imaginative empathy or sympathy, other forms of knowing, other forms of consciousness.

Ideally, some of the best connections with other people will arise from talk and ‘comparing notes’. In those exchanges of feelings and ideas, we may potentially experience similarities of feelings, thinking, and experiences that create the bridges of connection and, in turn, connected consciousness.

Over the days and years, our consciousness alters and, hopefully, grows. We learn more about others, ourselves, human nature, nature, society, and the world. As Ferguson suggests, learning occurs through our ability to make connections whether studying a person, a mathematical theory, a period of history, and so forth. Those connections become a part of us as much as we may, as Paul of Tarsus said, become a part of someone, something else, a process–of who and what we know.

Above all, shared consciousness and the seeking of common ground remain basic to one’s fulfillment as a person and as an individual.

“‘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.
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 colors. So lost and absorbed was he, that he had almost no time at all to react to the spooked deer–a doe–dart 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 neverending 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.

Leaning back against the car to get his bearings, he drew breath, 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 a mapless journey, in the wisdom of this great unexpected tranquility.

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A true moment of being and increased consciousness. In My Dinner with Andre, Wally points out to Andre that one does not have to travel to far away places in order to have whatever vision, the vision could occur at home down the street. Well, that may be true in “September”, but there may be times in people’s lives where they need to go a long way in order to find what it is they’re searching for, whatever peace and vision that can address the restlessness of soul.

For me, two decades ago, this was definitely a turning point and climax. Taking some extra days off from work, I flew to New England on the Canadian Thanksgiving/American Columbus Day weekend, rented a car and drove through all those states. My itinerary was very organized; I visited the main haunts associated with all that area’s best-known and revered writers–Frost (c.f. the title, several other allusions), Hawthorne, Dickinson, Melville, Millay, Alcott, Thoreau, Twain. Just an incredible overdose of literary history and culture combined with “the colors” as they are called by local denizens.

I realize these many years later that my soul sought a heightened consciousness that was only going to be possible at that time in those places. I still remember co-workers saying “Why are you going now during the school year?” and “That’s the trip I’m going to take when I retire.” Well, as I’ve noted in the introduction of this blog “The readiness is all”, and I was most ready for an adventure and escape which I have never forgotten or regretted. The last sentence still resonates today. I am there right now in my imagination and memory. Ah, the awesome power of consciousness, eh?

In the fall we drift along
the tree-lined streets
of unfamiliar places.
Leaves cover everything:
sleepy cars and houses
sidewalks and our coats.

My son drags his foot
beside the curb
like a street-cleaner
but even he admits
we could never hope
to hide these dead
in all the sewer grates.

Joggers and young girls
with dogs pass by
and look at us as if to say
‘you don’t fit our decor.’
The leaves, uncaring,
fall in slow time
wordless to the earth.

I used to think
that streets like these
were only meant for lovers
and their lonely ways,
but how wrong can one be
about yellow, red, and green?

In the fall they drift along
the tree-lined streets.
The man is crunching memories
as he watches his son
run on ahead
laughing with the wind
and leaves.

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Perspective, indeed. Written two decades ago when my son was about 6 or 7 as we partook of a special annual ritual begun years before with his older sister–what we called “leafing”. Nature again presenting the context for a moment of being and unfolding process and consciousness. Hard to pick a favorite personal stanza, but I think the fourth is what I personally learned about perspective and being “wrong” about something. There is definitely more than one perspective here, but in end I have always preferred to empathize and identify with my son in the final image. He and nature have and had the last say in this memory. (One more work on fall to follow, set in New England, a turning point and climax re. identification with nature and consciousness of one’s place in ‘the greater scheme of things.’)