Samhain Thanksgiving Moon
November 24, 1859, The Origin of the Species,Charles Darwin‘s revolutionary text on humans, animals, and everything in between, was published…many Darwin disciples informally refer to this date as Evolution Day (and celebrate accordingly). Lapham Qtly.
On Evolution Day it seems appropriate to show my progress toward what I call the full Darwin. Here are the two Charleses side by side. Still a ways to grow. (It’s a selfie!)
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.
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.
Samhain Thanksgiving Moon
It’s been a week since Greg recommended I get to the place where I can read the Latin and translate as I read. This means doing what I’ve already done, looking up words, writing out a translation, but there is now another step. I look only at the Latin and translate it without reference to Perseus (on the web) or even to my notes. If I stumble, I go back to Perseus and the notes. Then back to the Latin alone. Only when I can look at the bare Latin and translate the sentence with no outside aides, can I feel finished.
I thought this would slow me down and at first it did. As I grew used to doing it though, staying “in” the Latin, as Greg called this method, began to make things easier. I began to to see the shape of sentences quicker, the subjects and objects popped out faster. Verb tenses and noun/adjective/pronoun declensions are becoming more automatic.
Staying “in” the Latin is winching me up, slowly, from the long plateau I’ve inhabited.
Here’s an example: “Hac iter est superis ad magni tecta Tonantis
regalemque domum.” This is a line from the story of Lycaon in the second large section of Metamorphoses, Book I. Just looking at this line, with no aids, I will read it to Greg this way: Hac, on this, est, is, superis iter, the exalted way, ad magni tecta, to the great temple, Tonantis, of Thundering Jupiter, regalemque domum, and his royal home. So the translation reads: On this is the exalted way to the great temple of Thundering Jupiter and his royal home.
(Lycaon wants to test the omniscience of Iupiter and serves him human meat. Hermann Postumus, 1542)
It has taken literally years to get to this place and I’m not all the way there yet. But I’m moving faster and better now.
Samhain Thanksgiving Moon
The nurse had a corner office. “Yes, you can see Olive Garden over here and the Allina clinic over there. Oh, and cars on the freeway.” She’d had it all day. When she handed me the gown and robe, she assured me that the glass had mirroring, “You’ll not be making a show.” Didn’t bother me either way, though spread out immediately below the third floor windows were two large parking lots and people came and went from their cars.
After gowning and robing, I got a look in a mirror. There was another old guy in hospital wear, slightly bemused. Me. This time the old guy in the mirror was me. Took me a bit to acclimate that.
We make these visits once in a while as strangers from the non-medical world, visiting a world truly known and understood only by those who work in it daily. Kate was among them. It’s a world where the casual infliction of pain is part of the job. Like the IV I had inserted. It’s a world where strong boundaries in our world are constantly breached.
People not known to us, or known briefly, may touch our naked bodies and may insert objects in different orifices. These are acts that, outside of this special world, are crimes, even felonies. Here we consent, play the masochist to the system’s sadist.
That system says it wants us as partners in our own health care but our lived experience of the medical world is one of subjugation and submission. We take and do what the doctor orders. Subjugation and submission. Rebeling here challenges your own self-interest in a very direct way, so the penalty is high.
The TSA, as I observed last month, trains us in submission, too. Take off belts, shoes, empty your pockets, carry only this much shampoo, this much toothpaste, stand here, raise your arms. Wait. Wait. Wait.
These self-contained worlds, whirring and buzzing, act as they do for our benefit. And I believe they do. He said, choking a bit on the TSA bone.
Still, for those of us with stubborn, strong personal boundaries and a high sense of self-agency, encounters with these systems jars the most basic and sensitive aspects of our psyche. They leave me tired and out of sorts unless I’ve been drugged. As was the case yesterday.
My regard for the often maligned American health care is, paradoxically, quite high. I’ve had generally good results, confounding my aversion to subjugation and submission. Efforts I’ve made to make myself more of a collegial actor in my health care have helped.
Still, as I look at third phase life and its inevitable downward turn, the thought of entering the strange and often alien world of medicine more and more often is not a pleasant one. It does motivate me, if I needed another motivation, to stay healthy. Not sure what to do with this, but here it is.
Samhain Thanksgiving Moon
The drugs have worn off and I’m getting more alert as the night grows more advanced. Plus I had a meal. A major event after the ritual of purification. At least for awhile I’m running against the rhythm of the day.
A washed out feeling, a bit loose at the joints, yes, and the grin has left my face. The drugs brought back the days, the ’60s, when a grin and dilated pupils meant there was a good party going on somewhere nearby. Now, as a resolute third phaser, I get my drugs the legal way, when I have a medical procedure. I enjoy them just the same.
Samhain Thanksgiving Moon
Purified, my documents for the temple in order, I’m ready to go lay myself on the table of sacrifice.
Though I’m not nervous, it is sobering to realize that this is one of those moments when the outcome could be life altering. To continue my now over extended metaphor, each time we draw near the holy of holies we risk the wrath of the gods.
Of course, this is supposed to have the opposite result, timely knowledge. I’m in favor of that.
Samhain New (Thanksgiving) Moon
Hit a mental wall yesterday. Could. Not. Do. One more MOOC or Latin related thing. Brain was not interested. In the AM we completed the last of the garden chores for the season and I went downstairs to work on Ovid. Nope. Then turned on ModPo and, for the first time since both MOOCs started I did not complete a week’s work on time. So this week I have to finish week 9 and do all of Week 10.
Doable because I no longer have Modern and Post Modern, but I don’t like to be behind. I’ll catch up today or tomorrow. At the same the new Latin learning style Greg recommended is, again, doable, but it takes more time. For now. The combination of the ending of Modern/Post Modern, the assessments due in ModPo, the home work Kate and I did to get ready for the Samhain bonfire and the bonfire itself, coupled with the changed Latin working style short circuited me. Or threw an internal G.F.I.
Then, there is, too, the G.D. time switch. I’m a naked, blanket, no prisoners opponent of messing with time. Leave it on standard time and damn the consequences.
As I write this, I realize I’m not much further along today. Need some more rest. On the other hand, feeling tired means I’ve been active and that’s how I want to be.
There is, though, one more flaw in this ointment. I started my low fiber diet yesterday, clear liquids starting at 11:45 pm tonight. Then that fun couple of hours with a Powerade Miralax punch. Those of you over 50 almost certainly know this routine.
As I read the rules for this procedure, it reminded me of ascetics who would undergo elaborate rites of purification before entering the temple to commune with their gods. In this case the god will appear in white armed with a long, skinny camera. He, not me, will be going deep inside myself, gaining self-knowledge for me and recording it with a camera. It’s better than meditation! Gastroenterologist be with me now and in the time of my procedure. So help me Galen.
Samhain Samhain Moon
Tonight is Samhain, also known as All Hallow’s Eve, and Halloween. An abbreviated thick description (see post below for thick description) for this Samhain, in this place, 3122 153rd Ave N.W., Andover, Minnesota could begin with any aspect gathered in to this day and its night, but we’ll begin with the firepit.
Kate and I hired Javier Celis to finish a firepit begun several years before by me, worked on by brother Mark two years, but needing some finishing work. Javier and his crew made the granite paving stones, from a cobbled street in Minneapolis, into a neat circle, lined the firepit with ground stone and put crushed marble around the outside of it. They also laid down landscape cloth and thick mulch over the entire area, a former compost pile.
Kate’s family had a firepit in their home in Nevada, Iowa and we both enjoyed them at other’s homes. The firepit hearkens back to campfires of native americans and pioneers here in the U.S., warming, lighting and provided heat for cooking.
The fire itself pushes back further to a fundamental separation between hominids and their close primate relatives, the domestication of fire. Who knows how it happened? Embers from a lightning struck tree conserved overnight by accident? A fire on the veldt which left grasses aflame and led to their use as early kindling? This basic transition, an elemental moment, as essential to our future as a container for water, lives on in our fascination with fireplaces and bonfires.
Bonfires, especially, may be linked, probably are linked, to the fear of night stalking predators, meat eaters for whom human meant food. So we feel safe around a bonfire, huddled around it, just a bit of the thrill left over when that thrill came from the very real possibility of death by fang or claw.
In the Celtic tradition, which we celebrate tonight, the bonfire had sympathetic magic at its core. In the spring, on Beltane, the fire transferred its vital energy to the soil where it could quicken the seed and ensure a successful planting. The opposite end of the year, Summer’s End, or Samhain, finds the bonfire a way of ensuring our warmth and protection from the cold and hungry months ahead.
My Celtic roots run through Ireland, the Correls, and through north Wales, the Ellises, and, perhaps, through County Kent, the Keatons. The Correls came as potato famine immigrants in the late 19th century and we have no information about the Keaton immigration though it might have been in the same era. The Ellises we know came here first in 1707 when Richard Ellis was put ashore by a greedy sea captain, sold as an indentured servant to pay his fare. His mother had paid his fare in Dublin, Ireland where her husband, a captain in William and Mary’s occupying army, had recently died.
Searching in my own and the more general Celtic past led me to the Great Wheel of the Year. It has gradually become a center point for reimagining my faith, helping me find the rhythms of the year and of human life as key sacred moments. Thus it is, at least in part, that we go to our firepit this year, to build a bonfire and say the names of our ancestors, standing there around the universal symbol of human protection, warming our hands and waiting as the Great Wheel turns from the bounty of the growing season to the Great Rest of the fallow time.
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.