Category Archives: Feelings

Kate

Samhain                                                           Thanksgiving Moon

There is one.  One special thanksgiving.  It starts with the baroque or the classical, a little IMAG0998Mozart, some Hayden, Pachelbel.  An affiliation with the older music making traditions of public music in the West.  Enough so to encourage regular attendance.  Then divorces, seats given up, and two people, the remainders of the marriages, seated next to each other.

Yes, one night over coffee at the St. Paul Hotel after the last Chamber Orchestra concert of the season, this woman and I discovered we had each other figured wrong.  Me: a lawyer.  Her: a school teacher, maybe a college professor.

Later a three week trip through Europe, starting in Rome, following spring north in March, as far north as Inverness, capital of the Highlands.  After that, closing in on 24 years of supporting and loving each other, blending our families, raising and loving many dogs, growing food, sewing and writing, growing old happily.

Kate.  This is thanks for Kate.

 

Holiseason Rising

Samhain                                                      Thanksgiving Moon

Can you feel the holiseason spirit rising?  I can.  Presents for Hanukkah lie on the bed ready to go in the truck for their ride to Denver.  Joseph’s coming to Minnesota.  The Byerly’s order will come today.  I’m headed out to Festival for the last of the list.

(Lyon)

Kate’s packed, audio books ready.  Cooler to fill.  Then Grandma will head over the plains and through Nebraska.

Meanwhile I’m closing in on Missing 5.0.  The holiday week should see that put to bed.  Celebration all round.

The Unreliable Narrator–You

Samhain                                                           Thanksgiving Moon

Beginning to play with the post-modern idea of the unreliable narrator, a staple of certain literary fictions and now understandable to me.  The most unreliable narrator of all may be our Self, or, rather, the work done by our mind to create a self.  As we attempt to weave a coherent notion of our story–how this, what, let’s use Heidegger’s idea of dasein–this dasein came to be here now, we impose on our memories a logic, a sequence, a string of cause and effects that explain, as best the dasein can, how it came to be in this moment.

There are many problems here, but the one I want to focus on is the fungibility of our memory and what Kant called the a prioris of thinking:  space and time.  Our memory changes as we access it, as we put it into new contexts, as our understanding grows and that changes happens to a quanta that was shaped by the context in which we first had the experience, the understandings we had then and by the fog created by our senses, which, by design and necessity, edit our lived experience so we can utilize it.

On top of this string of memory altering inevitables are the a priori categories of space and time, mental constructs which our reason uses to make what William James called “the blooming, buzzing confusion” worthwhile to us.  We see objects in four dimensions, in a space time matrix that changes as we perceive an object, event, feeling, moment, idea.

(Henry and William James)

What this means to us is that our Self has the demanding and ultimately futile task of seeing the plot in our life, its why and its meaning.  Why futile?  Because we change as we touch it, not Heisenberg, no, more than that we change more than the spin or the location of memory when we touch it, we change its content and thereby change our narrative, which, as a result changes our Self.  This is always happening, every moment of every day of our lives.   Modernist literature like Ulysses and Remembrance of Times Past was an attempt to give to us in written form this mutability at the heart of the internal project that is us.

As I said a few posts back, this is descriptive, not proscriptive and certainly not prescriptive, and it does contain one kernel of great importance. Since we actively construct our own narrative from the experiences we can recall, we can enter into that stream and actively construct our future.  In fact, unless we enter that stream with purpose, Heraclitus’s famous river, it will carry us along without our intention.

So, buckle up, strap on that orange life-preserver and take your seat in the raft that is your Self navigating the flood of your life.  It’s a thrilling ride no matter where it takes you.

 

 

Destabilizing. And That’s OK.

Samhain                                                              Thanksgiving Moon

A further extrapolation on the narrative fallacy and the self.  (see post below)  This notion, destabilizing as it is, makes sense to me. Which is ironic if you get the gist here.

It helps explain the existential panic I sometimes feel when my mood darkens, sometimes with a known trigger, sometimes not.  Yesterday was such a time for me.  When I have conversations about my work, Missing in this case, the potential for a seismic tremor heightens.  Of course, these tremors, unlike earth bound temblors, can produce good shakes and bad shakes.

Stefan’s careful analysis of what he felt worked and what didn’t, which I appreciated, especially in the detail and clarity which he offered so freely, unsettled me.  Geez, if this much still needs to happen and this is the 4th draft, what’s wrong with me?  WRONG.  OH.  I’VE FELT WRONG BEFORE. AND AHA THIS PROVES THIS OTHER TIMES RIGHT.  WHAT WERE THE OTHER TIMES?  UHH.  CAN’T REMEMBER EXACTLY, BUT THE FEELING, THE FEELING’S THE SAME.  ISN’T IT?

This went on as I drove away from his house.  I would remember the tell yourself this is a good workout, that you’re not tired article I read in the New York Times yesterday so I would tell myself that this was temporary, not anchored, that it was good to get feedback, that I was having a good day.  I had a friend who cared enough to be straight with me.  oops.  felt bad.  I’m having a good day, driving in the city.  There’s Knox Presbyterian, “living the obedient life”, yep, still conservative.  Need some tea, Verdant’s all the way over in Seward, but, hey.  The Teashop is just ahead on Lyndale.  Oh, good, I’ve never followed through on my writing, never got published, never tried hard.  Never. Never.  Never.  Never.  Here I am 66 and I’ve bounced from this to that.  Bad.  Wrong. Not followed through.  Old now and not ever going to follow through.  Always bad, wrong.  Wait.  There’s the Teashop.  I’ll buy tea here, not drive all the way over to Seward then have to loop back to Kramarczuk’s.  After the teashop.  Bought a half an ounce of tea for $25.  Stupid.  Hey, I can just loop around, no cars in the lane going the other way on Lyndale.  Oh.  Didn’t look behind me in my own lane, guy lets me go.  Maybe I’m too old to drive.  How will I know?  Bad.  Wrong.  

Finally, I talked myself into the moment.  Cut the loop.  The wind drove the golden leaves, the maple leaves, they are golden.  They swirl up in the air, blown high, come down.  Fall.  This is fall and it’s happening right before my eyes, as I eat this Italian sausage, which is not so hot, still I’m right in the middle of this wonderful seasonal transition.  I’m in this moment now, neither bad nor good, just here.  Part of another fall.  It’s come again, as it has come before and will come again.  And I will be in it, part of it.  Neither bad nor good.  Right nor wrong.  I calmed down, my center returned and the jaggedy feelings left my body, those tensed muscles relaxing.  

The feeling tone remained, like a bad taste, and tried to reassert itself, grind itself into the wormhole that is a certain narrative arc about my self. Finally, the arc I prefer, the one that lets me move forward, not get stuck, took hold.  I had woven my narrative around this temporary dis-ease and let it be.  Part of my life, yes, but not all of it.  Whew.

 

The Samhain Bonfire, a bit more.

Samhain                                                             Samhain Moon

Frank said as he left, “Casual gatherings.  Low key.  That’s what I like best.”  It was low key, but in its own surprising way, profound.

The bonfire stayed interesting for 3 hours plus, the last hour or so the result of the five four foot lengths of ironwood cut in the morning.  There will be a number more of those logs cut over the next few weeks as we prepare for the Winter Solstice bonfire on December 21st.

The calling of the ancestors to the circle worked.  When we finished, they stayed with us, entering our conversations, adding layers to the people gathered around the fire.  Our group of 7 grew by generations of Fairbanks and Charles’s and Wolfe’s and Perlich’s and Zike’s and Spitler’s.  Some of us called in our tribal ancestors from those days long ago before settlement of Europe and all of us gave a nod and a toast to the Tanzanian man whose y chromosome all the men share.  Mitochondrial Eve, too.  (Though I understand that picture has gotten more complicated.  But the idea is sound.  That woman and that man, far enough back to have entered all our DNA.)

Warren and Sheryl threw their names into the fire wrapped around logs from long ago cached wood for a barbecue.  When they did, sparks from the fire flew up toward the night sky.  Reminded me of Beowulf’s bier, where “heaven swallowed the smoke.”

More memories gather around this place.  It becomes richer with each event, especially with the crowd of ancients who filled it last night.  Some of their spirit will linger on, remembering us and being remembered.

 

 

Into the Weeds

Fall                                                                               Samhain Moon

Additional on post just below.  There is a tendency in quasi-religious, new agey thought to condemn doing and promote being, especially being here now.  Nothing wrong with being here now, of course.  Especially since we really have no other choice.  This seems like a false dichotomy to me however.

Even in our doing we are being and in our being we are doing.  This is only to say that doing entails presence to the world and to ourselves, albeit in a different way from the semi-mystical state of being here now.  If you’re a fan of Zeno and his paradox, then you might craft an argument about never changing out of the now, but in other ways of explaining reality, even being here now is impossible.  Why?  Oh, the earth moves around its poles, through the sky and your body digests food, engages in symbiotic exchanges, responds to changes in temperature and light, shifts nourishment into cells and waste out. Change, that old black magic, has its hooks so deep into the universe we often never notice it, even when it moves with the speed of light.

However, if you go back to the observations I’ve been making about circular time, the repetitive nature of change, how it loops back on itself in predictable patterns, perhaps, yes, in more of a spiral than a bicycle wheel, but still Fall then again Fall, and Winter then again Winter, and Birth then again Birth, and Death then again Death, well, if you consider them, then the cycle from one now to the next is Now then again Now.  We’re never ever out of the now, yet we experience movement.

These paradoxes point to being and doing as a false dialectic, not poles resonating with each other like, say liberal and conservative or life and death or true and false, but as alternating ways to explain the same thing, our hereness.  As Heidegger points out, we are thrown into the world at a particular place, to particular parents and in a particular time. I would push that one step further and say we are thrown into each moment in a particular place, in a particular time, with the unique, particular body/mind that is you.

In each moment our particular response to the now has doing characteristics and being characteristics.  Perhaps another way to say this is that part of us is at rest while other parts are engaged with the now, acting on it or being acted upon by it. We do both at the same time, being and doing.

So what’s all the fuss?  It’s about attention.  When all of our very valuable attention focuses on the action or work or active play of  a moment, then we draw ourselves from the beingness of that moment.  When we focus on the beingness, we draw ourselves away from the doing.  But both states co-exist, no matter on which we focus.

The key move here is about attention.  We can and do shift our attention from different aspects of our life to others, from ourselves to the world or moment into which we are thrown.  If we spend all of our attention on doing, then we neglect the deeper, more reflective aspect of our selves.  Conversely, if we spend all of our attention on being, then we neglect matters necessary for our survival.

In the rhythm of your day, your year, your life, you can choose to attend to the activity, the work, the “what you do.”  This might entail lists or calendar marking or goals and objectives or satisfying layers of cloth or manuscript pages.  Likewise you can choose to attend to the beingness, the what you are.  This might entail meditation, silence, counting breaths, noticing plant and animal life at a close, intimate level.

The point?  What do you do, is a valid question.  So is who are you?  They might have the same answer.

The New Way

Fall                                                                              Samhain Moon

Latin today, a good lesson.  I forgot basics, stumbled around, thought I had it when I didn’t.  So why keep banging my forehead against the solid wall of the Roman language?  There’s no reason, no necessity.  Just like the MOOC’s I’m taking are not necessary.

When Kate pressed me on taking two MOOC’s at once, I replied, “I never took less than 18-20 credits a quarter in college.  Graduated with way more credits than I needed.”  She looked at me. “You’re not in college anymore.”  There’s that.

In my defense I did set one aside, so I only took two instead of three.  That’s progress, right?

No, there’s something deeper going on here, I know that.  Learning keeps my mind vital, alert, attentive.  It helps me jump out of ruts into new territory.  I’ve always been curious what’s beyond the limits, the city limits, the college rules limit, the religious limits, the limits of the universe.  Liminal spaces are my favorite, places where two worlds intersect, a little blurry, mostly undefined.  In the past, the now distant past, I used to get there chemically, now books and movies and essays and thoughts and the shovel and the quiet mind and the open heart, they get me there instead.

I want to stand on the shore looking out, stand on the peak looking over the valleys, stand at the mouth of the cave looking in, then follow my gaze.  See what’s beyond safe ground. I hope I never lose that desire.  In fact, I hope I have it when I’m facing death, wondering what’s just beyond the safe ground of life itself.  But not, as my ENT doc said, for a long time.

Old Friend

Fall                                                                              Samhain Moon

You seem to be sinking into melancholy again.  No, I’m not.  Yes.  You are.

Oh.  Well.  October is often gray as my consciousness begins to mirror the sky.  It is in my way to miss the dimming of the lights arrival and not notice when it leaves.  Kate reminds me.  Then I feel heavy as if weights descended within from head to foot, slowly, taking attention and vitality with them as they slip down.

“Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to visit you again” has always seemed so apt. There is that strange feeling of comfort, of familiarity, as the mind’s interior collects, becomes heavier.  It is, almost always, a prelude to a period of heightened creativity, but there is the tunnel, sometimes long, sometimes short, that must be negotiated first.

That manhole cover is off and I’ve begun climbing down the ladder into the labyrinth.  I’ll need an Ariadne sometime soon.

 

Wholeness

Lughnasa                                                                  Harvest Moon

Mabon eve.  The night before the fall equinox.  Tomorrow the light loses its struggle to own more than half of the day, a gain achieved back at the Summer Solstice in June.  From this point on the light diminishes and the darkness increases to its zenith at the Winter Solstice.

Been meaning to report on an interesting feeling I had at the Woolly meeting on Monday night.  I took two pies Kate had baked:  ground cherry and raspberry, both of fruit from our garden.  I also took a box of honey from our  hive, Artemis Honey with the label made by Mark Odegard.

When I left, after having sold 18 pounds of honey, I had a feeling of wholeness, that’s the best way I can describe it.  I had worked all season on the garden, the orchard and with the bees and somehow that evening I felt one with it all.

When I told Kate how I felt, I said it felt like something private was made public, that those two worlds knit together in one moment.  She said she got a similar feeling when she took food for a group, as she did so often for work and as she does now for her sewing days.

It was a good feeling, however understood.

Loaf

8/10/2013     Lughnasa                                                 State Fair Moon

Caught up on my e-mails.  Walt Whitman said of summer that he would “loaf and invite his soul.”  That’s what I want to do for a few days now.  Missing 3.0 is out of my hands at the moment.  Loki’s Children has not started up again, Latin’s in abeyance, most of the garden chores are caught up.  A rare moment between.  Loaf, I like the word.  For now.