{"id":15384,"date":"2014-04-04T00:01:20","date_gmt":"2014-04-04T04:01:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=15384"},"modified":"2014-04-03T06:00:00","modified_gmt":"2014-04-03T10:00:00","slug":"the-space-that-contains-the-stalk-i-call-me","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2014\/04\/the-space-that-contains-the-stalk-i-call-me\/","title":{"rendered":"The Space That Contains the Stalk I Call Me"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"'Homeward<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Homeward Bound,” by Luc De Leeuw on Flickr<\/a>. Used under a Creative Commons license.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From\u00a0whiskey river<\/em> gone by<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The irony and tension fade away, and I am home once more. I don’t want to ruminate on happiness. It is much simpler and much easier than that. For what has remained untouched in these hours I retrieve from the depths of forgetfulness is the memory of a pure emotion, a moment suspended in eternity. Only this memory is true in me, and I always discover it too late. We love the gentleness of certain gestures, the way a tree fits into a landscape. And we have only one detail with which to recreate all this love, but it will do: the smell of a room too long shut up, the special sound of a footstep on the road. This is the way it is for me. And if I loved then in giving myself, I finally became myself, since only love restores us.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Albert Camus [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…<\/span>and<\/a>\u00a0(from whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/em>):<\/span><\/p>\n

The Resemblance Between Your Life And A Dog<\/strong><\/p>\n

I never intended to have this life, believe me —
\nIt just happened. You know how dogs turn up
\nAt a farm, and they wag but can’t explain.<\/p>\n

It’s good if you can accept your life — you’ll notice
\nYour face has become deranged trying to adjust
\nTo it. Your face thought your life would look<\/p>\n

Like your bedroom mirror when you were ten.
\nThat was a clear river touched by mountain wind.
\nEven your parents can’t believe how much you’ve changed.<\/p>\n

Sparrows in winter, if you’ve ever held one, all feathers,
\nBurst out of your hand with a fiery glee.
\nYou see them later in hedges. Teachers praise you,<\/p>\n

But you can’t quite get back to the winter sparrow.
\nYour life is a dog. He’s been hungry for miles,
\nDoesn’t particularly like you, but gives up, and comes in.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Bly [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

In his book On Having No Head<\/em><\/a>, Douglas Harding pointed out that our actual experience of life is of being a stalk, the body, which ends at the chest and shoulders, upon which sits the entire universe. We can’t directly experience ourselves as having a head; we simply assume we are looking out through the eyes in our head because we see others doing that, and when we look in the mirror, that’s what we see. But our experience is of an undifferentiated world of colors, shapes, textures, sounds, feelings and sensations, all existing in one reality, roughly in the spot where we think of our head as being. All that exists, exists on top of the stalk that I call me.<\/p>\n

The truly amazing next step in this realization is that the stalk I call me is included in the total existence that extends outward from the top of the stalk. My actual experience is that nothing is separate. I cannot say that any one thing is separate from any other one thing because they all occupy the same space — the space that exists, and contains, the stalk that I call me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Cheri Huber)<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from\u00a0whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

During many summers, now, I have watched [the ant], when I ought to have been in better business, and I have not yet come across a living ant that seemed to have any more sense than a dead one. I refer to the ordinary ant, of course;\u00a0I have had no experience of those wonderful Swiss and African ones which vote, keep drilled armies, hold slaves, and dispute about religion. Those particular ants may be all that the naturalist paints them, but I am persuaded that the average ant is a sham. I admit his industry, of course; he is the hardest working creature in the world — when anyone is looking — but his leather-headedness is the point I make against him. He goes out foraging, he makes a capture, and then what does he do? Go home? No; he goes anywhere but home. He doesn’t know where home is. His home may be only three feet away; no matter, he can’t find it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mark Twain [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/span><\/p>\n

Home Fire<\/strong><\/p>\n

Whether on the boulevard or gravel backroad,
\nI do not easily raise my hand to those who toss
\nup theirs in anonymous hello, merely to say
\n“I\u2019m passing this way.” Once out of shyness, now
\nreluctance to tip my hand, I admire the shrubbery
\ninstead. I’ve learned where the lines are drawn
\nand keep the privet well trimmed. I left one house
\nwith toys on the floor for another with quiet rugs
\nand a bed where the moon comes in. I’ve thrown
\nmyself at men in black turtlenecks only to find
\nthat home is best after all. Home where I sit
\nin the glider, knowing it needs oil, like my own
\nrusty joints. Where I coax blackberry to dogwood
\nand winter to harvest, where my table is clothed
\nin light. Home where I walk out on the thin page
\nof night, without waving or giving myself away,
\nand return with my words burning like fire in the grate.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Linda Parsons Marion [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Your world of illusion is too fond of drawing maps. When something calls you, follow it. Do not be afraid. The only path you are really on is your own. It is all an illusion anyway.\u00a0In the Greater Reality you have never been on any path, because you have never left Home<\/em>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Pat Rodegast and Judith Stanton [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/span><\/p>\n

The Letter From Home<\/strong><\/p>\n

The dogs barked, the dogs scratched, the dogs got wet, the
\ndogs shook, the dogs circled, the dogs slept, the dogs ate,
\nthe dogs barked; the rain fell down, the leaves fell down, the
\neggs fell down and cracked on the floor; the dust settled,
\nthe wood floors were scratched, the cabinets sat without
\ndoors, the trim without paint, the stuff piled up; I loaded the
\ndishwasher, I unloaded the dishwasher, I raked the leaves,
\nI did the laundry, I took out the garbage, I took out the
\nrecycling, I took out the yard waste. There was a bed, it was
\nsoft, there was a blanket, it was warm, there were dreams,
\nthey were good. The corn grew, the eggplant grew, the
\ntomatoes grew, the lettuce grew, the strawberries grew, the
\nblackberries grew; the tea kettle screamed, the computer
\nkeys clicked, the radio roared, the TV spoke. “Will they ever
\ncome home?” “Can’t I take a break?” “How do others keep
\ntheir house clean?” “Will I remember this day in fifty years?”
\nThe sweet tea slipped down my throat, the brownies melted
\nin my mouth. My mother cooked, the apple tree bloomed, the
\nlilac bloomed, the mimosa bloomed, I bloomed.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Nancyrose Houston [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

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[Image: “Homeward Bound,” by Luc De Leeuw on Flickr. Used under a Creative Commons license.] From\u00a0whiskey river gone by: The irony and tension fade away, and I am home once more. I don’t want to ruminate on happiness. It is much simpler and much easier than that. For what has remained untouched in these hours […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,251],"tags":[657,1395,3521,3772,3773,3774,3775,3776],"class_list":{"0":"post-15384","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"tag-mark-twain","12":"tag-robert-bly","13":"tag-albert-camus","14":"tag-luc-de-leeuw","15":"tag-cheri-huber","16":"tag-linda-parsons-marion","17":"tag-pat-rodegast-and-judith-stanton","18":"tag-nancyrose-houston","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-408","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15384","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15384"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15384\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15398,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15384\/revisions\/15398"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15384"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15384"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15384"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}