{"id":18782,"date":"2017-01-13T06:41:45","date_gmt":"2017-01-13T11:41:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=18782"},"modified":"2017-01-13T06:41:45","modified_gmt":"2017-01-13T11:41:45","slug":"consolations-of-the-moment-but-which-one","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2017\/01\/consolations-of-the-moment-but-which-one\/","title":{"rendered":"Consolations of the Moment… But Which One?"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Southwest Reservoir Bridge,” by Bascove<\/a>. (The artist also produced — selected and illustrated — the anthology in which I found Muriel Rukeyser’s poem, below.)]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

A Journal of the Year of the Ox<\/strong>
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/p>\n

I find myself in my own image, and am neither and both.
\nI come and go in myself
\nas though from room to room,<\/span>
\nAs though the smooth incarnation of some medieval spirit
\nEscaping my own mouth and reswallowed at leisure,
\nDissembling and at my ease.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Charles Wright [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and (italicized portion):<\/p>\n

…if I go to sleep after lunch in the room where I work, sometimes I wake up with a feeling of childish amazement—why am I myself? What astonishes me, just as it astonishes a child when he becomes aware of his own identity, is the fact of finding myself here, and at this moment, deep in this life and not in any other. What stroke of chance has brought this about?<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Simone de Beauvoir [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

\n\n\n\n\n
Poem<\/th>\nWhite<\/th>\nPage<\/th>\n<\/tr>\n
White<\/th>\nPage<\/th>\nPoem<\/th>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

Poem white<\/span> page<\/span> white<\/span> page<\/span> poem<\/span>
\nsomething is streaming out of a body in waves
\nsomething is beginning from the fingertips
\nthey are starting to declare for my whole life
\nall the despair and the making music
\nsomething like wave after wave
\nthat breaks on a beach
\nsomething like bringing the entire life
\nto this moment
\nthe small waves bringing themselves to white paper
\nsomething like light stands up and is alive<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Muriel Rukeyser [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Taking Down the Tree<\/strong><\/p>\n

“Give me some light!” cries Hamlet\u2019s
\nuncle midway through the murder
\nof Gonzago. “Light! Light!” cry scattering
\ncourtesans. Here, as in Denmark,
\nit’s dark at four, and even the moon
\nshines with only half a heart.<\/p>\n

The ornaments go down into the box:
\nthe silver spaniel, My Darling<\/em>
\non its collar, from Mother\u2019s childhood
\nin Illinois; the balsa jumping jack
\nmy brother and I fought over,
\npulling limb from limb. Mother
\ndrew it together again with thread
\nwhile I watched, feeling depraved
\nat the age of ten.<\/p>\n

With something more than caution
\nI handle them, and the lights, with their
\ntin star-shaped reflectors, brought along
\nfrom house to house, their pasteboard
\ntoy suitcase increasingly flimsy.
\nTick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.<\/p>\n

By suppertime all that remains is the scent
\nof balsam fir. If it\u2019s darkness
\nwe\u2019re having, let it be extravagant.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jane Kenyon [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/p>\n

In the Moment<\/strong><\/p>\n

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,
\nthe kind that gives you no choice
\nbut to unbutton your shirt
\nand sit outside in a rough wooden chair.<\/p>\n

And if a glass of ice tea and a volume
\nof seventeenth-century poetry
\nwith a dark blue cover are available,
\nthen the picture can hardly be improved.<\/p>\n

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,
\nand two black butterflies
\nwith white and red wing-dots
\nbobbed around my head in the bright air.<\/p>\n

I could feel the day offering itself to me,
\nand I wanted nothing more
\nthan to be in the moment—but which moment?
\nNot that one, or that one, or that one,<\/p>\n

or any of those that were scuttling by
\nseemed perfectly right for me.
\nPlus, I was too knotted up with questions
\nabout the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.<\/p>\n

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?
\nWhy did John Donne’s wife die so young?
\nAnd more pressingly,
\nwhat could we serve the vegetarian twins<\/p>\n

who were coming to dinner that evening?
\nWho knew that they would bring their own grapes?
\nAnd why was the driver of that pickup
\nflying down the road toward the lone railroad track?<\/p>\n

And so the priceless moments of the day
\nwere squandered one by one—
\nor more likely a thousand at a time—
\nwith quandary and pointless interrogation.<\/p>\n

All I wanted was to be a pea of being
\ninside the green pod of time,
\nbut that was not going to happen today,
\nI had to admit to myself<\/p>\n

as I closed the book on the face
\nof Thomas Traherne and returned to the house
\nwhere I lit a flame under a pot
\nfull of floating brown eggs,<\/p>\n

and, while they cooked in their bubbles,
\nI stared into a small oval mirror near the sink
\nto see if that crazy glass
\nhad anything special to tell me today.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Billy Collins [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

#23:<\/strong> Mystics will tell you, with some justification, not to concern yourself with the past nor to obsess about the future: you can’t change the one, and can’t predict (or — so it often seems — can’t even influence) the other. Live in the moment<\/em>, they say. But there’s a catch: what if the moment is full of things going wrong — of misery and pain, real or psychological, personal or widespread? Must you settle for mute, dispassionate acceptance and suffering? Can you?<\/p>\n

Here’s where the important, all but unspoken “Yes, but…” shows itself: Live in the moment<\/em>… but keep both the past and the future close at hand.<\/em> They both have lessons to offer, lessons other — neither better nor worse — than the lessons of the moment. The lessons of these other moments always take two forms: the past reminds you of a time when you (or someone you know) did not suffer; the future, of a time when you (or someone you know) will suffer no more. You must live in the present, yes. But both the past and the future remind you that any given present is no more substantial, no more changeless than the air you breathe.<\/p>\n

Take one breath at a time; and if it hurts, recalling an earlier, easier breath, take the next.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(JES, Maxims for Nostalgists<\/em>)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Southwest Reservoir Bridge,” by Bascove. (The artist also produced — selected and illustrated — the anthology in which I found Muriel Rukeyser’s poem, below.)] From whiskey river: A Journal of the Year of the Ox (excerpt) I find myself in my own image, and am neither and both. I come and go in myself […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":18807,"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":"Simone de Beauvoir, Muriel Rukeyser, Billy Collins, et al.: Consolations of the Moment... But Which One?","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":[183,38,247,1393,250,5,36,251,4159],"tags":[941,1141,2490,3166,3285,4477,4478],"class_list":{"0":"post-18782","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-backwards","9":"category-ruminations","10":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","11":"category-art","12":"category-06_writing","13":"category-reading","14":"category-poetry-writing_cat","15":"category-essays","16":"tag-charles-wright","17":"tag-billy-collins","18":"tag-muriel-rukeyser","19":"tag-jane-kenyon","20":"tag-maxims-for-nostalgists","21":"tag-bascove","22":"tag-simone-de-beauvoir","23":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/01\/southwestreservoirbridge_bascove_thumb.jpg?fit=480%2C295&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4SW","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18782","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=18782"}],"version-history":[{"count":26,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18782\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18809,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18782\/revisions\/18809"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18807"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18782"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18782"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18782"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}