Presence in The Present

Looking for one's keys, wallet, or glasses is one thing. Wondering where the mislaid friends are is another. Did I neglect to contact you? Did I not send the card, the note, the letter I'm sure that I wrote (at least in my head)? Being present in the present requires more than presence, it requires a certain prescience of being too; an awareness of actions impacting the future. Just telling myself that I'm putting my glasses down 'here' allows me to locate them more-easily later, indeed. But for that ease of relocation I must needs be very conscious of the 'now'. Or else.

Or else so much energy is wasted. Time smudges into circular motions, going over and over the past. The steps one took. The pictures in the head. The emotions felt. The meanings meant but lost in translation. We pick up and put down and forget, or some things haunt at us. And we wish to be able to revisit, to reconnect, to re-find! But yes, most things slide by in our continuum; we can but hope for memory’s clarity. After all, the New Year makes for each one of us being older.

My Mum Joan did not know who I am any longer. She really is my stepmother. I spent a seaside summer holiday week with her and my father when I was fourteen. And for very many years in my father's biannual letter, Joan would tag on some news in his aero-grams. But when I did see her again, nearly five years ago, she was in her 80s, and I a grey old man. We are not actually connected, other than by circumstance. So too for the very many people and things that pass through our being-alive along the way? We can hardly be blamed for not remembering all the names in the pathways of our journeys. But not to remember where one puts one's glasses?

Vision is limited by our immediate. We make plans and we do not pursue them because of the distractions en route. We have New Year's intentions and then the reality of old habits, or of chance circumstances, or worse, of accident happens. If, as professed by some, there are no coincidences, then why is it that I may spend wasted time searching for my glasses? Or is the lessons really circulating and circulating until I come to the concrete realization of my presence in the present? (Often, I imagine I am waylaid that I might not meet with some other misfortune.)

We take ourselves wherever we go. And we are not perfect. Even the reaches of that last word is very much arguable. How possibly to be ‘perfect’?

I’ve a long-time friend whose stance is that we cannot control the future; we will get dementia if it’s in the genes. He would argue this contention in the decades before brain-plasticity was a fertile topic, and nowadays, with Epigenetics as a ‘new discovery’ (its probabilities for self-change exciting the populace as if there never was such a thing) many still retain a deep-seated disturbance that dementia or Alzheimer’s might be inherited. At present I’m reading Julian Jane’s book: The History of Consciousness in The Bicameral Mind. Impressive title! Impressive book. It would appear that evolution of the mind is indeed a historical fact. We once thought a certain a way, collectively, if not individually. And slowly our consciousness grew such that we individually formed a new collective. So too for now. We are at least a national if not a global consciousness, and our group-think is evidently responsible for our socio-political contentions.

The bell curve is much like an inchworm, progressing bit by bit. The outliers push at the edges of established belief, thought, and ideals. And very, very, very slowly we progress. Patience is needed, and compassion. We easily forget the lessons given by history. We easily forget the examples given by our parents. We easily forget the wording and the philosophy and the sentiments that stir our hearts. They are things that we but momentarily give focus to, and we continue with our busy lives. Even the keys to our doors go missing, let alone our glasses.

 

 

Old Wrappings

 [photo courtesy of Santa Stuart Bentley]

When the idea first arose in Angela she felt lit up from inside. Without money enough to buy presents she was worried about Christmas. Her dear parents deserved gifts, as well as her younger sister, and so very many cousins and aunts and uncles too, never mind all her friends, and her three older brothers. After all, everyone always got her something. And although her parents always signed their gifts to others, 'with love from the family,' Angela, now that she was old enough to earn her own pocket money, felt very strongly that she should be giving back. But what to buy? Her pocket money would not go far.

Even as the idea invigorated her, young as she was, Angela knew that her problem was not so much about what someone might like as much as that she herself felt she'd put some effort into having them see that she cared. And carefully, over the next few weeks before Christmas, she gathered up every bit of spare wrapping paper from her mother's gift wrapping, and every little box, and even found the saved old wrapping from old Christmases past. It had to be old. They never really reused the paper anyway.

As the month or so before Christmas turned into a few days, Angela's beneath-the-bed store of treasures grew and grew. "Nobody peeks under my bed," she begged. "No one rattles or shifts a single thing, please. The surprise might break!"

At night she would sit by herself with her lists and scrawl out her ideas. She could've perhaps used the computer and printed out her words, but she felt it better to keep things in her own handwriting, and not yet let others see.

"What's up with you, Angela?" Her brothers and sister teased. "You're pretty dreamy these days, always wanting to be alone with your scribbling. Collecting boxes. Making a picture for me?"

"You'll see," was all that Angela admitted, giving them sparkles in her eyes with excitement.

Christmas morning eventually came. The tree was magnificent with their heirloom decorations brought out once a year, as well as with the new gaily coloured dangle-dangles and the coloured lights and the little Santa and teddy bears and snowflake ornaments and even the Christmas angel, right on top. But more especially, there were mounds of presents under the tree, and many of them were from Angela herself. A present for everybody she could think of; every one of her friends; and even for her teacher! Yes, they all were evidently wrapped with last year's old crinkly paper, some with battered looking bows, but every little or big shape was prettily wrapped, like building blocks of gaudy gold, silver, green, red, and many shades of blue.

Eagerly, Angela awaited the moment and then at last handed out her presents. "Everyone please wait until I say ‘open’, o.k.?  ... O.K., now!"

And as they did so, some ripping the wrap, some carefully lifting up the cellophane and unfolding the folds, the various sized boxes were opened. "There's nothing inside!" exclaimed one of her brothers. Another said, before reading it, "Your handwriting is in here?” Yet the third said, “Old wrinkled paper? Is this a joke?"

Angela's mother peered into her unwrapped box and read aloud: 'Peace in the present is wished for you, always.' Her eyes glistened. "Thank you my angel, it's perfect. A perfect present of peace."

"Yes, see, it's always inside us," Angela beamed, "we just have to remember to unwrap our old wrappings!"

 

 

Sneaking A Peek?

 

Lessons repeat themselves. They come around in differing forms and nip at the heels, tug at the heart, manipulate mannequin-like, or simply trip one up. And we respond, or react, and even try to avoid them, consciously or not. So it is we break with our integrity, learn to lie, to cheat and steal, or worse, fool even ourselves into being so very much less than we can, ought, or might be. Christmas, especially, puts me most in the path of such lessons. Temptations abound!

Eggnog is meant to last at least a week. Chocolates in open dishes are meant for occasional guests. Cookies are meant as tea-time treats, with only one, or perhaps two, per occasion. And presents, the most tempting of all, are meant to be hidden, or wrapped and waiting under the tree, with not so much as a hint or a peek at what any one of them might be. But at seven years old, I was yet to begin learning the lesson that seems only now, in my seventh decade, to have come full circle sufficient for me to articulate the lesson itself. Perhaps had I not oft been beaten, scorned, shamed, and deprived I might more easily have learned the lesson. Integrity for the self might've become an internalized thing had someone articulated it clearly for me, but I was not insightful enough to realize that THAT was the lesson, not just a concept, integrity. Instead I feared honesty, feared admitting errors, and learned to keep to myself my thinking, my feelings, and my actions least the consequences, especially as delivered by others, would tear into me.

"Don't lie to me. You looked at your present after I told you not to, didn't you?"

To me she looked like an old woman; I was seven. "I didn't, Aunty," I remonstrated. "I was just moving some parcels while I was cleaning up the lounge," I offered, making sweeping motions.

"I saw the rip in the corner of your present, liar! You did take a peek, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry, Aunty. I was just so excited to see if it was what I hoped for! And it is! So thank..."

"Go get a belt, bend over the bathroom tub, pants down, hands in the tub, and wait for me! But first, I'm going to take your present now and give it to someone else!"

Yes, I recall exactly what it was I did not then get. But more significantly, the lesson I was then learning was not to own up, not to be honest, and worse, more carefully to conceal from others what I knew might get me into trouble. Boarding school and the army had exacted the same.

Which brings me to today.

"Please don't peek in my bathtub," my wife asked me, about a week or so ago. "I haven't yet wrapped your presents."

I did not, and never thought to. But today I was in there and noticed a black shopping bag on its side next to the small mound under the towel my wife had spread over whatever she's been collecting for me. And for a moment I was in the act of reaching out to just pluck at that new temptation that I might see 'more better' when... I knew instinctively that my integrity was about to be compromised. My wife would not know; but I would. And with that knowledge I'd not gain personal power, but lose it. A lifetime of deceptions and betrayals, small and large, came down to the apparently innocent act of sneaking a peek. Indeed, the lessons circle back and repeat; we are persons of integrity for ourselves, bit by bit, or not. How very much, as a child, I would have liked the lesson given voice to my cognizance; given precise articulation to my potential. But then again, integrity comes circling around and around in very many enticing guises, doesn't it?

 

 

Trailing Clouds of Glory

Vitality is fascinating. We resonate best with people evoking not only our interest, but also our emotions. And when thought and feeling are yoked, they enrich our lives profoundly, whether for just a brief moment, or for a lifetime. Meeting Brandy was just that, a special moment to treasure at 500 plus miles an hour, more than 4 miles up. So was meeting Roger, down on the earth, homeless yet very much at home, just the night before. Both were youngsters in their early 30's. Both were beautiful, handsome, articulate, educated and motivated; and both gave us the gift of their time and their intensity. Brandy then gave us a caring card. Roger gave us an appreciative handshake. Yet boy, were they ever different as humans on our planet.

Roger was unkempt and dirty. He parked his old bike near my power-chair and I studied his hand-built tow-cart. We were in front of the Royal Bank at the hub of Victoria's downtown with the pedestrians a thick swirl all around us and the noise of the buses and the cars a frequent growl and grind at the ears. He looked to be about 30-ish, with distinctly overlong hair and an under-washed appearance. Yet he had clear blue eyes. "Built it yourself?" I asked. "Did too," he smiled, "all out of recycled parts." I looked into him. "You managing to keep warm at night with that bed-roll you've got?" I asked. "Any night of the year," he reassured me. "I've got everything I need right on me. Never use a bank. Keep my cash in my pocket. Work the jobs I can wherever and whenever I can. Don't use social insurance. Owe nobody nothing. Have no car, no rent, no mortgage, and no debts. I used to be a CPA. Ran a business. Now, I'm a free man."

"Fascinating," I responded, and wheeled my power-chair closer to hear. I did not tell him that back in my mid 20's, an escapee from Africa's military, I too had lived off my wits when I'd bicycled up Britain, avoiding Home Office authorities and deportation, intending to disappear into a crofter's lifestyle under an assumed name on the Orkney Islands. That was my story; this was his. And as my wife now came out of the bank and joined us, he continued.

"Yup. But on February 19th, mark my words, we'll have a new world order. The poor will no longer be poor. Before then for three weeks the banks will shut down to implement a new integrated economic system. All the heads of state, all the genocidal maniacs and the power-mongers and the biggest financial families will be jailed or removed from office and all the people will find themselves no longer suffering from overinflated foods and services prices. So also for goods and taxes. So too for mortgages and rents. We will have an entirely new system!"

And so, with February 19th but three-minus months from now, we left Roger to find his perch.

The next morning, 5:30 a.m., we left our home to fly across the country, east to Ottawa. And that first leg from Vancouver Island to Calgary with WestJet was not so pleasant since the air hostesses were not quite awake. But after the hour or so's wait at the switch-over, our new plane for the four and a bit hours to visit our long-time friends was altogether more pleasant. We also met a new young friend, Brandy.

An air hostess, beautiful, unassuming, and for whatever reason resonating with the two of us, she spent some time squatting down in the aisle and chatting to us throughout the flight. It might have been that we were in the back of the plane and so there was no one else directly in her sight that made it easier for her to talk. It might have been my fatherly age and her daughterly self that promoted a connection, but the vitality between her and my psychologist wife, between us too, was a living thing in that fuselage of hundreds of people. It had a tempo of swapped stories that was vital and endearing and motivating. Brandy, so very different from Roger, yet also such a vibrant soul steering en route to her own glory. Vitality, indeed, is invigorating for all.

Critique, anyone?

Exordium: (winning of attention)

One is only as good as the judge thinks you are. When the ice skater falls yet wins a gold, while the other stayed upright, who am I to judge? Who determines the value of wine, the perfection of a dish, and who gets 'to stay'? This sunset is good, but you should have seen last night's! Why is writing for one person "brilliant," but "obtuse" for another? Unless judges have the same criteria, and are of the same mind, so much of the desired outcome in a competition, depends.

Narratio: (historical survey)

All of history has given us competitions. Evolution we believed to mean survival of the fittest. The Vikings pillaged and plundered. Romans loved the fight between lions and Christians, and gave us gladiators galore. Ancient Greeks venerated decathletes and bull jumpers. Knights tilted lances and hoisted on petards. Englishmen slapped faces with gloves and colonized the 'lesser-thans'. Russians shot the Tzar. The French ousted their Antoinettes. And Cowboys got quicker and quicker. The Industrial Age brought us race-tracks and commercial tycoons. Modern commerce and politics are rife with needs to secure individual purchases and public votes. Competition is in our blood!

Propositio: (resolving and defining main contention)

How to judge fairly? Especially in art. Objectivity versus subjectivity is the watchword. Yet surely a painting set in Africa will appeal more to one who has been there? So too for a story set in France. Or what about the differences between Caesar salads? One has to hope, when entering a competition, that the judges have the right wherewithal to know just what it is they are evaluating! Or are they like me, ignorant of the criteria that makes up ice-skaters?

         In writing, does the judge know the classic sea-star principles; know spiral-dynamic-memes of characterization; know Anneagram personalities; the Johari window; or a Classical Mountain deployment? One takes for granted that one's judge is aware of ordinary literary terms, has no qualms between similes or amongst metaphors, and is conversant with ontology, epistemology, and even the purposeful injection of a poetic anapestic tetrameter. But are they perhaps like me with ice-skaters, ranking each on a criteria that is just about entirely subjective?

Partitio: (dealing with arguments)

In parsing arguments for fair judgements it might be averred that we choose judges based on their proven expertise in past competitions, their professional affiliations, and their track record. Criteria for competitions is usually explicit. Set distances and laser-timers determine outcome. So too for wrestling matches. So too for productivity and sales charts. So too for voter counts.

           Yet evolution itself reveals that it is very much the lucky who survive, who win, rather than necessarily the fittest. A literary agent receiving 400 hundred cookbook submissions a week sifts  for the first or so 'perfect' fit; the rest can simply not be given their due.

Confirmatio: (proving one's point)

Three or more judges seldom are instantly unanimous. A deliberation is necessary. Juries most frequently require a debate. The distinction between the winner and the loser, particularly when there is only one prize to give, is reduced to delicacies complicated by democracy itself.

Reprehensio: (refutations of likely contentions)

Without the Latin terminology as herein explained (following the seven parts of Classical Oration) who may comprehend the purposeful thread of my current litany? Too pretentious? Which of us is easily aware of the diverse memes within the subtext structure of most written contentions? Must there be footnotes? No, we either like it, or we don't. Such is our wont.

Peroratio: (summation)

Careful adherence to criteria in any competition is paramount. (A runner in our local marathon was disqualified for accepting a drink held out by a spectator.) Trying one's best, belief in one's product, and knowing no such thing as perfection is the heaven that one might best reach for, or why else perpetuate possibly exceeding one's grasp with an entering into competitions at all?

Shadow Sides

Not all shadows are harmful. We each carry them around inside us, wherever we are, even at night. (Perhaps, especially at night.) Some would call them our subconscious. Others might call them our Angels and Devils. Most would acknowledge that we each have these unleavened, unfulfilled, unrealized wants and needs that drive us habitually to repeat the same kind of actions, over and over again. The shadow does not necessarily always follow. Often, it can lead.

It's the Jungian shadow I'm talking about (hereby made up by me as an A and C side, with a B and D underside of the self). It is one's Attractiveness and one's Character that another sees, (and that we somewhat see in ourselves too.) And if my A and C sides resonate with yours, we easily may make friends, companions, lovers. Yet beneath each of these obvious precepts lies the shadow, that which drives my subconscious, my B and D undersides. I may be developed or mature or insightful or perspicacious enough to divine much of my inner shadow-self, and thereby my B side may become Bountiful, instead of Bad; as may my D side become Dauntless, instead of Deathly.

Now, since I am the one writing, I get to create at will the terminology to explain the Jungian concept. His actual precepts are fairly easily understood. We have an established A side, and a usually somewhat hidden B shadow-side. The A is that which you see (and like, or dislike.) Her A is 20, blonde, female, articulate, and attractive. His A is 23, male, tall, educated, a stud, and keen for a date. And off they go into the sunset to live happily after ever. But, there's a catch.

Our B sides, the shadow sides, are not yet (if ever) unleavened, realized, fulfilled. The blonde did not have a daddy and always is looking for an older and wise(r) man. The stud happened to have a shrew for a mother and so is hyper-sensitive to the slightest of criticisms. And so forth.

Complex, ain't it?

Yet we can see that our B sides are not necessarily ‘bad’. We may find ourselves always wanting to be the very best we can be; always trying to prove ourselves; and always feeling insecure as a result of the lack of parental unconditional love. And the things we therefore ‘do’ are (and can be) so good because of it! Then too, we may find ourselves always shopping; needing more; cramming our spaces with things we really do not need; all because we did not receive these things as children; or they were taken away; broken by others; ruined. And though not ‘bad’, we do find ourselves overspending on things that might more readily have gone into something, well, grander than what we actually have, had we only saved sufficiently, or invested, but...

And then again, we can see that out B sides might be very bad indeed.

Like the man who killed the Canadian Mountie this month. What awful hole in him needed to be filled before he chose such an action? On scales of predominant sole-survivalist living; or feeling bound by family constellations and expectations; or feeling the self aggrandizement necessary to compete just to win; or feeling the pain-body of a cultural composition so strongly that the wrongs of history cannot be overcome; or needing to manage and dictate to others the ideals held within the self; or even of determining that everyone who does not think like oneself is an idiot; what great hole in this fellow needed so to be filled that he would choose to shoot up parliament?

Guy Fawkes bears a long shadow. So does Benedict Arnold. Yet we harbour shadowed ‘things’; he; she; they; and us. We each know somewhere deep in ourselves there is a want that may even become a need that we keep trying to feed, albeit but a nameless shadow that creeps and slinks and heels at our sides, whether or not in the full light of day. And we stand on guard, glorious and free, or not. Our shadows indeed may be beautiful, or not. At issue is our bringing them to light.

                                               [photo by Len Wagg as posted on Facebook]

Death: A Deconstructed Construct

Other than the tag within the piece itself, there is no author mentioned to the picture-piece below. Seldom do I directly steal without attribution, yet all that any of us is arises out of the amalgam of that which went before and through us. And so to share: