On Being Human

Loneliness hits us all. So do suffering, loss, and pain. Hopefully so do joy, wonder, and love. But it’s easy to feel like we’re on an island. And then something happens, when maybe just for a moment, we find a connection. Someone says something or we read something and it washes over us–someone else feels that way, or ‘yes, that’s it–that’s the feeling!’ or ‘I can’t believe someone else thinks that!’

So often it’s language that connects us. It gives words to our feelings, our thoughts, our pain, our joy, our curiosity. If you are like me, that’s a feeling I get from reading, and from some writers and poets more than others.

I knew what my first tattoo was going to be the first day we studied William Blake in Dr. Gillin’s British Romanticism class at Washington College. I was 24 years old and we were discussing Blake’s poem, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.” It’s a big, unwieldy, hard to get your head around, free form puzzle on first glance and I remember thinking that I didn’t know you could do that in poetry. This morning, looking over different sections of “Proverbs of Hell,” I got that awestruck feeling all over again. Here are some dropped in at random:

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

Eternity is in love with the productions of time.

If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.

Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.

The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.

What is now proved was once only imagined.

They are like hand grenades that go off in your mind. He changed what I thought you could do with writing. He spoke things that I hadn’t yet found words for. And now I carry around his engraving “The Ancient of Days” (at the top of the page) on my left shoulder. I remember Dr. Gillin talking about the art saying it was God creating order in the universe.

In that same class we encountered William Wordsworth. And he is a poet who wrote about connected to nature and wonder the way I felt and thought about them. I can’t tell you how many times I have read, quoted, and contemplated his poem “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey.”

This past fall I had coffee with friend and mentor John Miller. John has been a long-time instructor at Chesapeake Forum, dating back to when it began as “The Academy for Lifelong Learning” at the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum, where we worked together.

John and I have gotten together for coffee and to talk literature and life over the past couple years, including talking about the passing and great memories of our friend, former co-worker, and John’s co-leader in countless literature classes, John Ford.

As we sat outside along the street in September, John Miller had something on his mind. He started reading aloud from John Milton’s elegy “Lycidas,” in which Milton mourns the drowning of a friend, class mate, and fellow poet and wonders about his own mortality and if our struggle is all worth it.

And the thing we kept coming back to was the way language, the way poetry, can give voice to all the things we feel and think and encounter in this business of being human. The power of language to help us get our heads and hearts around being human.

And Blake and Wordsworth were two other poets who came up in the discussion. And we went back and forth over e-mail and phone calls and what we have coming up over three Zoom sessions on Thursdays, January 27, February 3 and 10, from 10:00 to 11:30am is Milton, Blake and Wordsworth: On Being Human.

This is not an academic study of poetry. This is a look at how poetry can give us the words to help us connect to each other; to help us make some kind of sense of what it is to live a life, to grieve, to see into the heart of things; to connect to God through nature.

I go back to a line that Robin Williams delivers as John Keating, the English teacher in Dead Poets Society:

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”

I have held that notion to be exactly so and tried to live my life, at least in part, along those lines.

And that’s the spirit we will approach Milton, Blake and Wordsworth with, as we discuss what it is to be human, and how language and poetry can connect us.

Uncovering the Path

* This was first posted at The 4-1-Run. I wanted to re-post it here, as it is an ongoing exploration/discovery, and I want to have all the various thoughts along the way collected in one place.

I pack a small backpack: water, fruit and nut trail mix, binoculars, a birding book, a notebook and pen, rain coat, pocket knife, a slim book–maybe John Muir, or Wordsworth, or Thomas Merton, or Gary Snyder’s “Turtle Island.”

I think about the movie “Empire Strikes Back,” where Luke Skywalker looks into the cave that is his test and asks, “What’s in there?” And Yoda’s response, “Only what you take with you.” Be light and free. Be open. I start up the mountain with Muir in my head:

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn. – John Muir

Hold on, who said that, Muir or Yoda? Maybe Muir is the Yoda of the mountains.

For 20 years or more, I have used, lived, and contemplated the metaphor of life, and the life of the spirit/soul, being a journey up the mountain. I think that too many of us–speaking for myself–wear a path back and forth or around the base of the mountain and think (or tell ourselves) we are making progress upwards; that we are getting somewhere.

And that’s where Yoda comes in, we find only what we take with us. And what we take with us are our habits, our worries, our fears, our doubt, and in some cases our stuff–our material things. And those things either weigh us down so heavily that we can’t climb, or we have to wrestle with them before we get anywhere.

This past Sunday, at church our pastor put Henri Nouwen’s “The Spiritual Life,” in my hands, a tome of eight of his books brought into one. We were talking favorite spiritual writers while on a mulching expedition during the week and he couldn’t recall Nouwen’s name as we threw around Merton, Bonhoeffer, and Buechner.

“This is for you,” he said, with his best Yoda smile. What he had first mentioned about Nouwen was that he walked away from prestigious academic positions to focus on helping men and women with intellectual disabilities. I’ve been spending my morning coffee with Nouwen this week. Books and writers have a tendency to find me at the right time.

henrinouwen

Nouwen talks about how our time and schedules are filled, how we are always busy, because being busy is a status symbol–look at how busy and productive I am–nd yet our spirit is unfulfilled because we are notĀ filling our lives or schedules with the right things.

Only having the girls half the time, I spend a lot of time alone. That can be both good and bad for an overthinker. The only times I can really turn my brain off, or allow my thoughts to slough off are when I am running or in prayer/meditation, which can be sitting with coffee, watching the sunrise or sunset, staring at the stars, but it has to be intentional time.

For all my alone time over the past couple years, when I looked closely, I found myself circling the bottom of the mountain; pacing back and forth in a rut of my own footprints. My habits, my lack of clarity, my inertia, nothing was helping me push up. And yet, climbing the spiritual mountain, carpe’ing the diem, asking the big questions and looking for answers, and being on the move rather than one place–these are all things that make me, me.

My time alone somehow wasn’t solitude, or at least not enough of it.

Once the solitude of time and space have become a solitude of the heart, we will never have to leave that solitude. We will be able to live the spiritual life in any place and at any time. Thus the discipline of solitude enables us to live active lives in the world, while remaining always in the presence of the living God. – Henri Nouwen

There are times when it feels like you’ve just unloaded rocks out of your pockets or backpack and feel lighter and ready to climb.

I have much more to say about the mountain–maps, compasses, the virtue of discerning your true path vs. switching paths at every pass, the people you meet along the way, whose paths overlap with yours and who you walk with for a time–but let’s call this part one. Beginning again. Or uncovering a path I had let get overgrown.

As I swill some water, smile at the sunrise, and keep on up the mountain, I look into Wordsworth’s lines that are among the favorite I have ever read:

…And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of the setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of thought,
And rolls through all things. I heretofore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and in the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the muse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my mortal being.
– William Wordsworth, from Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey

crop-tintern-abbey