{"id":18295,"date":"2016-07-29T10:36:17","date_gmt":"2016-07-29T14:36:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=18295"},"modified":"2016-07-28T17:31:38","modified_gmt":"2016-07-28T21:31:38","slug":"the-knowing-of-things-had-and-the-knowing-of-things-not-had","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2016\/07\/the-knowing-of-things-had-and-the-knowing-of-things-not-had\/","title":{"rendered":"The Knowing of Things Had, and the Knowing of Things Not-Had"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Holding Hands,” by Valerie Everett; found it on Flickr<\/a>, and using it here under a Creative Commons license.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a> (italicized lines):<\/p>\n

Fruit<\/strong><\/p>\n

(for Czeslaw Milosz)<\/p>\n

How unattainable life is, it only reveals
\nits features in memory,
\nin nonexistence. How unattainable
\nafternoons, ripe, tumultuous, leaves
\nbursting with sap; swollen fruit, the rustling
\nsilks of women who pass on the other
\nside of the street, and the shouts of the boys
\nleaving school. Unattainable. The simplest
\napple inscrutable, round.
\nThe crowns of trees shake in warm<\/em>
\ncurrents of air. Unattainable distant mountains.<\/em>
\nIntangible rainbows. Huge cliffs of clouds<\/em>
\nflowing slowly through the sky. The sumptuous,<\/em>
\nunattainable afternoon. My life,<\/em>
\nswirling, unattainable, free.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Adam Zagajewski [source])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

When we live superficially, we are always outside ourselves, never quite “with” ourselves, always divided and pulled in many directions — we find ourselves doing many things that we do not really want to do, saying things we do not really mean, needing things we do not really need, exhausting ourselves for what we secretly realize to be worthless and without meaning in our lives.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Thomas Merton [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Lights<\/strong><\/p>\n

In summer, waiting for night, we’d pose against the afterglow on corners, watching traffic cruise through the neighborhood. Sometimes, a car would go by without its headlights on and we’d all yell, “Lights!”<\/p>\n

“Lights!” we’d keep on yelling until the beams flashed on. It was usually immediate — the driver honking back thanks, or flinching embarrassed behind the steering wheel, or gunning past, and we’d see his red taillights blink on.<\/p>\n

But there were times — who knows why? — when drunk or high, stubborn, or simply lost in that glide to somewhere else, the driver just kept driving in the dark, and all down the block we’d hear yelling from doorways and storefronts, front steps, and other corners, voices winking on like fireflies: “Lights! Your lights! Hey, lights!”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Stuart Dybek [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

People with a high level of personal mastery share several basic characteristics. They have a special sense of purpose that lies behind their visions and goals. For such a person, a vision is a calling rather than simply a good idea.<\/em> They see “current reality” as an ally, not an enemy. They have learned how to perceive and work with forces of change rather than resist those forces. They are deeply inquisitive, committed to continually seeing reality more and more accurately. They feel connected to others and to life itself. Yet they sacrifice none of their uniqueness. They feel as if they are part of a larger creative process, which they can influence but cannot unilaterally control.<\/p>\n

People with a high level of personal mastery live in a continual learning mode. They never “arrive.” Sometimes, language, such as the term “personal mastery,” creates a misleading sense of definiteness, of black and white. But personal mastery is not something you possess. It is a process. It is a lifelong discipline. People with a high level of personal mastery are acutely aware of their ignorance, their incompetence, their growth areas. And they are deeply self-confident, Paradoxical? Only for those who do not see that “the journey is the reward.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Peter Senge [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

Here<\/strong><\/p>\n

I can\u2019t speak for elsewhere,
\nbut here on Earth we\u2019ve got a fair supply of everything.
\nHere we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
\nscissors, tenderness, transistors, violins,
\nteacups, dams, and quips.<\/p>\n

There may be more of everything elsewhere,
\nbut for reasons left unspecified they lack paintings,
\npicture tubes, pierogies, handkerchiefs for tears.<\/p>\n

Here we have countless places with vicinities.
\nYou may take a liking to some,
\ngive them pet names,
\nprotect them from harm.<\/p>\n

There may be comparable places elsewhere,
\nbut no one thinks they\u2019re beautiful.<\/p>\n

Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,
\nyou\u2019re given your own torso here,
\nequipped with the accessories required
\nfor adding your own children to the rest.
\nNot to mention arms, legs, and astounded head.<\/p>\n

Ignorance works overtime here,
\nsomething is always being counted, compared, measured,
\nfrom which roots and conclusions are then drawn.<\/p>\n

I know, I know what you\u2019re thinking.
\nNothing here can last,
\nsince from and to time immemorial the elements hold sway.<\/p>\n

But see, even the elements grow weary
\nand sometimes take extended breaks
\nbefore starting up again.<\/p>\n

And I know what you\u2019re thinking next.
\nWars, wars, wars.
\nBut there are pauses in between them too.
\nAttention!—people are evil.
\nAt ease—people are good.
\nAt attention wastelands are created.
\nAt ease houses are constructed in the sweat of brows,
\nand quickly inhabited.<\/p>\n

Life on Earth is quite a bargain.
\nDreams, for one, don\u2019t charge admission.
\nIllusions are costly only when lost.
\nThe body has its own installment plan.<\/p>\n

And as an extra, added feature,
\nyou spin on the planets’ carousel for free,
\nand with it you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard,
\nwith times so dizzying,
\nthat nothing here on Earth can even tremble.<\/p>\n

Just take a closer look:
\nthe table stands exactly where it stood,
\nthe piece of paper still lies where it was spread,
\nthrough the open window comes a breath of air,
\nthe walls reveal no terrifying cracks
\nthrough which nowhere might extinguish you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Wislawa Szymborska [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Holding Hands,” by Valerie Everett; found it on Flickr, and using it here under a Creative Commons license.] From whiskey river (italicized lines): Fruit (for Czeslaw Milosz) How unattainable life is, it only reveals its features in memory, in nonexistence. How unattainable afternoons, ripe, tumultuous, leaves bursting with sap; swollen fruit, the rustling silks […]<\/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":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,50,36,251,4159],"tags":[325,921,1633,4368],"class_list":{"0":"post-18295","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-language-writing_cat","10":"category-reading","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-thomas-merton","14":"tag-wislawa-szymborska","15":"tag-adam-zagajewski","16":"tag-stuart-dybek","17":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4L5","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18295","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=18295"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18295\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18304,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18295\/revisions\/18304"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18295"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18295"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18295"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}