Embracing Ignorance Really Takes The Pressure Off!

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“Get in touch with your ignorance!”  That is the advice of Dave Gray in his book, “Liminal Thinking.”  I’ve been doing this for decades now and I’m discovering there is no end to it!  The more I can delve into this congenital “simple mindedness” the more I see how ephemeral my “wisdom” is and that actually…on the surface…it is just a bunch of words!  This is allowing me to find the value of these words, delving into them and exploring their depths as I revel in the field of meaning.

This “field of meaning” is simply the heart, that inexhaustible resource we are blessed with, where the Divine can be encountered.  In that interior world, that “Wholly Ground,” we learn to “pull on words” which is how one person described the making of poetry.  And as we “pull” on these words we find we are “pulling” on ourselves in a sense, our very identity is stretched taut as we do the bidding of T. S. Eliot and “wrestle with words and meaning.”  The discovery of this profound ignorance is the result.  Lest I mislead, by this “ignorance” I am still speaking of the Apostle Paul’s wisdom, “We see through a glass darkly.” ‘Tis such an humbling blow to the ego!

“Palimpsest: The Deceitful Portrait” by Conrad Aiken

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I chat via phone with a very gifted writer from New York City who lived here in Taos, New Mexico until about two years ago. This “confab” that we have bi-weekly is one of the most spiritually invigorating experiences I have in my life. She is writing an essay now on eidetic memory which brought to my tangentially-oriented mind the word “palimpsest.” And this, in turn, brought that same “tangentially-oriented” mind to the poet who introduced me to that term decades ago when I discovered the poet, Conrad Aiken.

A biographical note is in order. Aiken was born to a 1889 to a respected Savannah, Georgia physician and eye surgeon and his wife, the daughter of a prominent Massachusetts Unitarian minister. When he was eleven years of age, one morning he heard two gun shots ring out in his home and discovered that his father had shot his mother and then himself.. You can imagine the terror that gripped him. I share this anecdote because of a note that W.H. Auden made in a poem about William Butler Yeats, “Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.” For that murder-suicide to have happened, you can only imagine the madness the reigned in Conrad’s household and certainly “hurt” Conrad into poetry also.

Here I wish to share a bit of an Aiken poem, followed by a link to the entire poem. It begins with how we “walk through many lives” and carry a bit of each of them with us as we constellate an identity. With the resulting synthesis we “see but the small bright circle of our consciousness, beyond which lies the dark this powerful poem, Aiken explores the intricacies of identity, the art of subterfuge inherent in daily life, the sadness, the narcissism, the disappointment, and the courage we find to carry on before the taunting of despair:

And, as it is with this, so too with all things.
The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest:
New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased,
And those on older still; and so forever.
The old shines through the new, and colors it.
What’s new? What’s old? All things have double meanings,—
All things return. I write a line with passion
(Or touch a woman’s hand, or plumb a doctrine)
Only to find the same thing, done before,—
Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . .

If this poem speaks to you in the least, I encourage you to follow the link provided as it is a deeply moving poem from the heart of a poet full of very intense emotion with consummate skill is conveying his heart’s sentiments.

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/conrad_aiken/poems/441

Watch the Republicans Continue To “Guzzle the Kool-aid”

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With Trump’s 2nd Impeachment trial before us, we are going to see a real time playing out of the prophetic skit by Saturday Night Live in 2013, “Mr Belvedere’s Fan Club,” starring Tom Hanks. I have blogged in the past about a reverie of someone lost in the lunacy of a man who believes the moon is made out of cheese. In that reverie, I make the point that anyone who believes anything….regardless of how crazy it is…if he believes it fully, as in “beyond the pale”, there is no getting through to him. I dealt with this in my clinical practice in a psychiatric hospital and we diagnosed these patients, “psychotic.” For psychosis is the term for one who is cut off from any external reference, being wholly intoxicated with his private field of reference. Put an individual like that in a group of like-minded souls, and one will find a political party led by people like Kevin McCarthy, Lindsey Graham, Jim Jordan, Matthew Gaetz, and technically led even yet, Donald J. Trump.

I grew up in a mind-set like this. Oh, in fairness to those good souls, metastasis had not set in. It took a Trump to bring that poison to fruition. But there was a smugness that I grew up in, a smugness which is simply an essential dimension of tribal coherence. The smugness rarely metastasize to the point we are witnessing in my country, a process the analysis of which is beyond the pale of this exploration. “Smugness” even has a place but it ever finds a Trump, “Katy, bar the door!!

Tomorrow we will witness well-educated men and women passionately oppose conviction of Trump in this trial. To argue with them about their enthrallment would be a foolish endeavor. They have “drank the kool-aid” which is a grim image to remind us of what can ensue when one gives into unquestioned unconscious biases, to override the brain’s capacity for metacognition. It is kind of like some of my past clinical patients who were in the grip of suicidal ideation; these patients had lost hope and were relentlessly driven by the the “only” hope they could imagine, jumping over the cliff. It was the greatest challenge of my clinical practice, trying to offer hope to those in the grip of hopelessness.

I’ve Been a Worm Eating Grapes, And Still Am!

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And I fear I’m not though with that dim-sighted lot in life. It is so hard to “stop and smell the roses” (song by Mac Davis, link follows) if you have been busy paying attention the “ruck and reel that teases sight.” Rumi had insight, a degree of which I’m pining for:

There’s a worm addicted to eating grape leaves.Suddenly, he wakes up, call it grace, whatever, something wakes him, and he’s no longer a worm. He’s the entire vineyard, and the orchard too, the fruit, the trunks, a growing wisdom that doesn’t need to devour. Rumi

https://www.google.com/search?newwindow=1&client=safari&channel=iphone_bm&sxsrf=ALeKk01v0vwCgpjPlHcnMyOf14q8_6kpyQ%3A1612823946426&source=hp&ei=ir0hYOv0Fov9-gSFr5KYDw&iflsig=AINFCbYAAAAAYCHLmjdRyTDKFkRKcTFAqoI6M6XH8Wlv&q=mac+davis+stop+and+smell+the+roses&gs_ssp=eJzj4tFP1zcsNM2qKjMyKzFg9FLKTUxWSEksyyxWKC7JL1BIzEtRKM5NzclRKMlIVSjKL04tBgCcahER&oq=mac+davis+stop+and+sme&gs_lcp=CgZwc3ktYWIQARgAMgUILhCTAjICCC4yAggAMgYIABAWEB4yBggAEBYQHjIGCAAQFhAeMgYIABAWEB4yBggAEBYQHjoHCCMQ6gIQJzoECCMQJzoECC4QJzoFCAAQkQI6BQguEJECOggILhDHARCjAjoECAAQQzoECC4QQzoOCC4QxwEQrwEQkQIQkwI6CgguEMcBEKMCEEM6BwguEEMQkwI6CwguEMcBEK8BEJECOggILhDHARCvAVCdJli7V2DSd2gBcAB4AIABhwOIAdghkgEIMC4xNC42LjKYAQCgAQGqAQdnd3Mtd2l6sAEK&sclient=psy-ab

(The obscure quote, “ruck and reel”….google John Masefield if your are curious)

GOP’s “Hunkering-Down” is Tightening Up!

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This phenomenon always brings to my mind the David Koresh cult of 1993 which “hunkered down” near Waco, Texas and self-immolated. Cultic experience always ends in tragedy if no “out let” is found, such as in ancient times a sacrifice. (See Rene Girard, “Sacred and Violence.”)

The cult leader of the GOP and his minions cannot accept reality, that being a “shared” experience, not one that is “ex”-clusive. Registered voters are fleeing from the Republican Party in droves, mega-donors are “pulling the plug” from him, some Republican Party members are critical to him, if not completely excoriating of him. And now he can’t find a lawyer with only two days before he needs them to present his case. The lawyers that argued his case a year ago would have nothing to do with him this time, then a team of lesser-light attorneys that took on his case this time suddenly backed off on Friday. And if that is not enough, he and the GOP has to deal with the stench of Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene.

But the mindset of Trump and his stalwarts is always galvanized with disapproval which permits them to voice their feelings of beleaguerment. It is not possible to reason with people whose mind is made up so rigidly. Giving up, giving in to beseeching of others, would evoke an anguish in their heart that is staved off only by the rigid belief system which often finds a figurehead, the “cult-leader.”

So how shall we respond? Well, with”faith” which is a subject I will soon explore given a blog responder this morning. But the “faith” I have in mind is not regurgitation of rhetoric but venturing into one’s own heart and finding the anguish that is lingering there. That will allow us to meet them on a more level playing field without the condescension that is always our first response. These “cultic” individuals have been forced into these rigid beliefs because they could not find solace anywhere else in our culture. This will force us to address the bankruptcy of our modern world and have a “come to Jesus” moment in our culture.









					

		
		
	

							
	

				

			
						

				“Shuffling Off This Mortal Coil” of Certainty
			

										

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In my last blog, yes, my “panties were in a wad.”  They often are now as some three decades ago I stated heeding the advice of King Lear, “Blunt not the heart, enrage it.” When my fervor involves my religious past in fundamentalist Christianity, I am often given pause lest any unfortunate soul from those days of my life venture into this “dark and vicious place.” (Also, Shakespeare)





In that expression of religion, there is the tradition of “asking Jesus into my life” as a means of spiritual conversion.  To any of the aforementioned unfortunate souls who ventured there in the last blog…or even this one…I would like to reassure them that I have no doubt about their conversion experience, or “asking Jesus into my life.”  In that tradition, those words will suffice for a relationship with their Source and those words will suffice as much as any words, any ritual, or any tradition.  The mistake I made in my youth was a matter of identity; like any child, I had an ego and at that age an ego is a very fragile “thingy,” designed to cloak itself in illusions that will allow it, that is will allow itself,  to find a footing in this world. Later, with “a little bit of luck and a strong tail wind,” one can start saying to oneself, regarding his most cherished assumptions or certainties, “Hmm. Maybe there is another way of looking at that?” Or as Shakespeare put it, find the courage to “shuffle off this mortal coil” of unquestioned assumptions.

					

		
		
	

							
	

				

			
						

				Does Professional Baseball Now Have More Moral Courage Than Hordes of Religious People?
			

										

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Is professional baseball more of a moral arbiter of our country than religion, at least with many of our religious people?  Yesterday, the Major League’s Baseball Writers Association of America voted to not allow Curt Schilling into the Hall of Fame and later explained that one of its criteria for admission moral turpitude  Schilling has demonstrated the absence of this “moral turpitude” in more than one occasion, just recently when he defended the 1/6/21 insurrection at the White House and in a 2016 tweet when he called for the lynching of journalists.  His past also includes a strident display of racism, sexism, an “general human ugliness.” He was fired from ESPN telecasting for similar offenses.





The Baseball Writers Association of America apparently does believe words…and actions…matter.  Oh yes, they have some ‘splaining to do about past blatant racism and other offenses…and they will now face pressure on the matter; but in our nation’s moment of grievous peril, “moral arbiters” need to step up.  And many religious leaders (i.e. Robert Jefferess, Franklin Graham, Paula White, et cetera ) will not offer a voice of disapproval to the dark “savior” they have adopted.  Nor will most of the Republican Congress who demonstrated yesterday when they voted on a matter which reveals how they will likely vote soon on conviction of Trump in the upcoming impeachment trial.





Yes, my “panties are in a wad” again.  And hopefully they will continue to be as I have much to say about how intelligent, college educated, “born again believers” can harbor gross attitudes, speak great evil, and behave badly all “in the name of Jesus.”  I “been there, done that.” The situation devouring my country now is not one of reason, or intelligence, or even politics.  It is “out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaks” and our collective heart is now speaking, in words and deeds great evil, and nothing but a spiritual reckoning beyond the pale of anything that Jeffress, Graham, White, et al have ever faced will suffice.






					

		
		
	

							
	

				

			
						

				“To Gloat, Or Not To Gloat; That Is The Question.”
			

										

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In the glory days of my beloved Arkansas Razorback Basketball team in the early ’90’s, the rabid fans in the home crowd would break out into this little ditty when “we” had vanquished another foe–“Oh, its hard to be humble, when you perfect in every way”  In a memorable moment, the Texas A & M coach Shelby Metcalf was so angry, he walked to center court after the gloating tune and ground his shoes into an image of the Razorback mascot on the floor as he looked up into the crowd defiantly  That was delightful gloating and I will never forget it.  And, yes, I have a gloating dimension with Joe Biden having been inaugurated and Trump and his insurrection having been thwarted…so far!  But my gloater is modulated this time, even more than it was back in 1989 in Fayetteville, Arkansas.  Gloating is a human impulse, and I’m not groveling in contrition for feeling this impulse, but it is immediately modulated with the realization that, “This is no time for gloating.”  This is no time for the childish ego-delight of having vanquished a foe in an athletic competition; this is a moment about our country’s welfare and even that of the world.





My study of history is brought to the table with this moment, In 1899, in the Spanish-American War the U.S.S. Texas had just sunk the Spanish cruiser, Viscaya.  When the victorious “Texas” was cruising past the burning and sinking ship, its crew was loudly cheering when its Captain, John Woodward “Jack” Phillip, chided them, “Don’t cheer boys.  Those poor devils are dying.”  Though it is human nature to gloat here, there are so many “poor devils” who are dying and I’m not even speaking of the Republican Party upper echelon but of the rioters who so foolishly stormed the Capitol on “01/06/21.”  Many of them are sorely regretting having given into their childish, old-brain impulses, having been stirred up by a sociopath president.  And even Qanon members are regretting their actions, one of them, the Buffalo-horned “shaman,” crying out, “We were duped by Trump.”  Others have reported feeling foolish.  Gloating is not in order and even blaming should not be first priority.  This is a “mess” we have been in for more than four years and gloating and blaming is short-sighted.  It is so very Trump.  We have an historic challenge before us and maturity, grace, and prayer is called for.  I’m trying to “whup up” those qualities inside myself.

					

		
		
	

							
	

				

			
						

				Further on How Truth Can Hide in Language
			

										

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Yesterday, I blogged about Hibah Shabkhez and an essay of hers about how truth can be hidden in language.  This duplicity occurs in the depths of the heart when language is employed, by necessity, to blog out primitive, old-brain terror  One writer, Nikos Kazantsakis had this in mind when he quipped the language is “but 26 toys soldiers that guard us from the rim of the abyss.”  But, as the Bible teaches us, when we are a child we must “speak as a child” but as an adult we must “put away childish things” and speak as an adult.  We must speak the Truth which always means we must realize that we speak as, “we see through a glass darkly.”





Here is another poet, W. R. Rodgers, grasping this same truth in the World WarTwo era:





WORDS (an excerpt)





Once words were unthinking things, signaling





Artlessly the heart’s secret screech or roar,





Its foremost ardour or its farthest wish,





Its actual ache or naked rancour.





And once they were the gangways for anger,





Overriding the minds qualms and quagmires.





Wires that through weary miles of slow surmise





Carried the feverish message of fact





In their effortless core.  Once they were these,





But now they are the life-like skins and screens





Stretched skillfully on frames and formulae,





To terrify or tame, cynical shows





Meant only to deter or draw men on,





The tricks and tags of every demagogue,





Mere scarecrow proverbs, rhetorical decoys,





Face-savers, salves, facades, the shields and shells





Of shored decay behind which cave minds sleep





And sprawl like gangsters behind bodyguards.

					

		
		
	

							
	

				

			
						

				Hibah Shabkhez, Poetry, and Truth
			

										

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A Pakistani woman, a poet, essayest, and native of Pashtun, Hibah Shabkez, responds quite frequently to my musings in this blog. And, I am so, so honored with these visits from this extraordinary young soul who is now studying in Paris. She is about a third of my age but blessed with a wisdom, including a keen grasp of language, that I’m only now beginning to tippy-toe into,  I’ve been exploring her work on the internet, and now own a book of her poetry, “Alack, The Ashen Waves of the Sea: Selected Poetry,” which is available at Amazon.com for a very reasonable price.  But I will share here the most stunning bit of wisdom that I’ve seen put into words in my decades of spelunking about in the metaphysics of language. 





 In her brief essay from the on-line journal, “Nighting Gale and Sparrow,” Hibah puts into words a linguistic complexity which has burdened me for decades.  Of late, I’ve come to somewhat understand this complexity but, have never been able to put into words as eloquently as she has. She explains that language initially blinds us to the Truth even as it assures us, often, that we have it most assuredly. The threat of understanding this wisdom that she offers is something I could not have handled most of my life; but now, it is immensely freeing, reminding me that all of us are in the same existential dilemma; and it is this “dilemma” that unites us all…if we can humbly accept its “condition of complete simplicity, costing not less than everything.”  (T.S. Eliot)  It takes all the pressure off and gives new meaning to the old hymnological bromide, “Burdens are lifted at Calvary”; or to word it without the hint of religious savagery, “Chill out. Carry on.  All is well. We’re in this together.”





ScareZone by Hibah Shabkhez





When you touch the edge of something hot—a frying-pan, a clothes-iron—you gasp and flinch away, before the knowledge, before the shock and the hurt and the searing of flesh. Locked in the thumping of your heart then, there is the secret triumph of assault successfully withstood, the inexpressible comfort of knowing it could not and cannot hurt you because you did and can again make it stop. But the drenching heat of liquid cannot be flung off, only sponged and coaxed away from the skin. And so they say doodh ka jala, chhaachh bhi phook phook kar peeta hai. (Urdu translation, “Once bitten, twice shy.”) It doesn’t take all men, you see, it takes only one; and just so, it takes only one vile lie to break a language’s heart.





When first you write a lie, a real lie and not simply a truth incognito, whether it be falsehood or treacherous half-truth, language recoils from you in pain, vowing never to trust you with words again. But if you must go on writing lies, for money or grundy-respect, seize the language and let it feel the sting and the trickling fear of the skin parting company with the flesh, over and over and over again, as you hold it unscreaming under the current. You must let body and mind and heart and soul be quite maimed then, until there is no difference left for any of them between truth and lie, between the coldness of lassi (urdu–”buttermilk”) and the heat of milk-tides rising from the saucepan. Thereafter you may plunder with impunity all of language and force it to house your lies. And if you will never again find words to tell a truth in, it will not matter, for you will have no truths left to tell.