{"id":19461,"date":"2017-07-14T06:51:02","date_gmt":"2017-07-14T10:51:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=19461"},"modified":"2017-07-14T06:51:02","modified_gmt":"2017-07-14T10:51:02","slug":"not-the-weaponry-of-reason-but-of-pure-submission","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2017\/07\/not-the-weaponry-of-reason-but-of-pure-submission\/","title":{"rendered":"Not the Weaponry of Reason, But of Pure Submission"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"'Easy,'<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Easy,” by Rob Cruickshank. Found on Flickr.com<\/a>; used here under a Creative Commons license (thank you!). No information available, really, although this seems likely to have been taken in the Hamilton, Ontario area.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Terns<\/strong><\/p>\n

Don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought,
\nbut of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.<\/p>\n

It’s summer, you never saw such a blue sky,
\nand here they are, those white birds with quick wings,<\/p>\n

sweeping over the waves,
\nchattering and plunging,<\/p>\n

their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes
\nhappy as little nails,<\/p>\n

The years to come—this is a promise—
\nwill grant you ample time<\/p>\n

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought
\nwhere you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.<\/p>\n

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,
\nthan this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.<\/p>\n

The flock thickens
\nOver the rolling, salt brightness. Listen,<\/p>\n

maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world
\nin the clasp of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer,<\/p>\n

but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,
\nis thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,<\/p>\n

but of pure submission. Tell me, what else
\ncould beauty be for? And now the tide<\/p>\n

is at its very crown,
\nthe white birds sprinkle down,<\/p>\n

gathering up the loose silver rising
\nas if weightless. It isn’t instruction, or parable.<\/p>\n

It isn’t for any vanity or ambition
\nexcept for the one allowed, to stay alive.<\/p>\n

It’s only a nimble frolic
\nover the waves. And you find, for hours,<\/p>\n

you cannot even remember the questions
\nthat weigh so in your mind.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a> (in slightly different words):<\/p>\n

Whatever exists in us is a natural situation. It is another dimension of natural beauty. People sometimes go to great lengths to appreciate nature, by climbing mountains, going on safari to see giraffes and lions in Africa, or taking a cruise to Antarctica. It is much simpler and more immediate to appreciate the natural beauty of ourselves. This is actually far more beautiful than flora and fauna, far more fantastic, far more painful, colorful, and delightful.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ch\u00f6gyam Trungpa [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Seven in the Woods<\/strong><\/p>\n

Am I as old as I am?
\nMaybe not. Time is a mystery
\nthat can tip us upside down.
\nYesterday I was seven in the woods,
\na bandage covering my blind eye,
\nin a bedroll Mother made me
\nso I could sleep out in the woods
\nfar from people. A garter snake glided by
\nwithout noticing me. A chickadee
\nlanded on my bare toe, so light
\nshe wasn’t believable. The night
\nhad been long and the treetops
\nthick with a trillion stars. Who
\nwas I, half-blind on the forest floor
\nwho was I at age seven? Sixty-eight
\nyears later I can still inhabit that boy’s
\nbody without thinking of the time between.
\nIt is the burden of life to be many ages
\nwithout seeing the end of time.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jim Harrison [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

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

Everything dies, I said. How had that started?
\nA tree? The winter? Not me, she said.<\/p>\n

And I said, Oh yeah? And she said, I\u2019m reincarnating.
\nHa, she said, See you in a few thousand years!<\/p>\n

Why years, I wondered, why not minutes? Days?
\nShe found that so funny — Ha Ha — doubled over —<\/p>\n

Years, she said, confidently.
\nI think you and I have known each other a few lifetimes, I said.<\/p>\n

She said, I have never before been a soul on this earth.
\n(It was cold. We were hungry.) Next time, you be the mother, I said.<\/p>\n

No way, Jose, she said, as we turned the last windy corner.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marie Howe [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Golden Anniversary<\/strong><\/p>\n

They must have been different once,
\nfire and water, miles apart,
\nrobbing and giving in desire,
\nthat assault on one another\u2019s otherness.
\nEmbracing, they appropriated and expropriated each other
\nfor so long
\nthat only air was left within their arms,
\ntransparent as if after lightning.<\/p>\n

One day the answer came before the question.
\nAnother night they guessed their eyes\u2019 expression
\nby the type of silence in the dark.<\/p>\n

Gender fades, mysteries molder,
\ndistinctions meet in all-resemblance
\njust as all colors coincide in white.<\/p>\n

Which of them is doubled and which missing?
\nWhich one is smiling with two smiles?
\nWhose voice forms a two-part canon?
\nWhen both heads nod, which one agrees?
\nWhose gesture lifts the teaspoon to their lips?
\nWho\u2019s flayed the other one alive?
\nWhich one lives and which has died
\nentangled in the lines of whose palm?<\/p>\n

They gazed into each other\u2019s eyes and slowly twins emerged.
\nFamiliarity breeds the most perfect of mothers—
\nit favors neither of the little darlings,
\nit scarcely can recall which one is which.<\/p>\n

On this festive day, their golden anniversary,
\na dove, seen identically, perched on the windowsill.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Wislawa Szymborska [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

22:<\/strong> Nostalgia isn’t overrated, and it isn’t underestimated, either. But it’s sometimes poorly understood: nostalgia, and the experiences and things which evoke it, suffers from too much conscious attention — from too much thought. If you stand on the shore as the water rolls up to lap around your feet, if your mind stops to consider what forces of time, physics, and weather have brought these waves to this moment, stops to contemplate where the water has come from and where it goes next, and when, then you<\/em>, friend, will miss the dizzying vertiginous moment when your whole being knows: it is not the water in motion, but you yourself.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Easy,” by Rob Cruickshank. Found on Flickr.com; used here under a Creative Commons license (thank you!). No information available, really, although this seems likely to have been taken in the Hamilton, Ontario area.] From whiskey river: Terns Don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought, but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":19474,"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":"Jim Harrison, Mary Oliver, et al., on fighting via not-fighting: 'Not the Weaponry of Reason, But of Pure Submission'","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":[183,247,1393,250,5,251,4159],"tags":[595,921,3285,3476,4306,4561,4562],"class_list":{"0":"post-19461","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","10":"category-art","11":"category-06_writing","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"category-essays","14":"tag-mary-oliver","15":"tag-wislawa-szymborska","16":"tag-maxims-for-nostalgists","17":"tag-marie-howe","18":"tag-jim-harrison","19":"tag-chogyam-trungpa","20":"tag-ease","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/easy_robcruickshank_thumb.jpg?fit=640%2C428&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-53T","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19461","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=19461"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19461\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19478,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19461\/revisions\/19478"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/19474"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19461"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19461"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19461"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}