Recently, I have been feeling out-of-sorts more than usual, and sunk in a sort of spiritual case of the doldrums. So, I figured I needed to return once again to my old habits of reading more, crocheting less (though I’m backed way up with craft projects!), and writing poetry again. As it so chanced, I got Elizabeth Lesser’s book Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow off one of my library websites.
Now, when I read a self-help book, even a more spiritually-inclined one, it’s a rare day. I automatically have my critical claws out for grammar and punctuation and style errors, since many such books are self-forgiving in their copy editing. And as expected, I found a number of mistakes and one nearly unforgiveable error–to an English teacher, anyway–in which T. S. Eliot was quoted or referred to knowledgeably, apparently, but spelled T. S. Elliot. These sorts of things always make me suspicious of the author, because I reason that if their message is so vital and earth-shaking, they could at least eliminate errors and distractions, somewhat in the way that the first steps of any spiritual routine that I am aware of first concentrates on accuracy and repetition of some chant or discipline or physical exercise done correctly, which them later morphs into a higher reality. Maybe Lesser reasoned that she was already on a higher level and so didn’t need to be cautious about her basics, but that didn’t wash with me. The book wasn’t done with me, however.
Sure enough, once I started reading, my old friend synchronicity gave me a visit. As Lesser more or less quotes the prophet of synchronicity (that prophet being Carl Jung), what is not brought to consciousness returns to us as fate. Thus, all the many things I’d been meaning to have another look at popped up at once in the references in her book. There was Jung, Joseph Campbell (yes, the mythologizing Hero With a Thousand Faces Joseph Campbell), Rainer Maria Rilke, whom I’d also checked out before opening her book, and various other not-new-but-surprisingly-recurring items. So, I kept reading. It was an uneven book, but helpful and except for what I believe she herself calls a few “hippy-dippy” moments, for which anyone can be forgiven who’s writing about such intangibles as spirit and its manifestations, a restorative read. After reading her, I went back to the two-disc set of DVDs in which Joseph Campbell was interviewed before the end of his life by Bill Moyers. Though their conversation is dense with reference and complicated points in storytelling, it’s an enlightening and provocative set of interviews, and well worth anyone’s time who wants to feel more in tune with humanity in general.
This morning, I was feeling disgruntled again, so I decided to try to put down my thoughts in a poem, and boy, did I! It may not be the best poem in the world, may in fact be thought of by some as very prosaic, but it’s three pages long, and I think encapsulates the experience I’ve recently been having. Though the mystic in the poem is a “she” (as a sort of indirect nod to Lesser, though I wasn’t consciously writing about her), the real figure I was thinking of was a sort of femininized Campbell, a spirit guide. As well, I thought of Kenneth Burke, the great rhetorician of roughly the same time frame as Campbell, who had many illuminating thoughts about the human situation as well, though his most flagrantly spiritual thoughts were protectively couched in terms of how rhetoric functions. These two men were both loosely or closely at different times associated with teaching and universities, but both were often autodidacts in the sheer amount of syncretic learning and thinking they did, on many issues. So, here’s the poem, in all of its perhaps dubious glory. I have to apologize for the length of this post, but without all its parts, I don’t think it would make sense.
The Only Road in Town (To Kenneth Burke and Joseph Campbell) Wayfarers We all are, The signposts irregular and confused. As children, Proud of new abilities To scan and read, We make fun Of the ancient spellings, Pronounce them in the distorted fashions They seem to suggest, Ignorant we, ignorant-seeming they. Seeming, in fact, is what we know, How things seem to interpret themselves out, Lazy children, letting things go their own ways. We think we split into many myriad paths, I a doctor, you a lawyer, he a merchant, She a mystic, And we all shrug at her especially, For she keeps insisting That there's only one road in town. But when we need, in the middle of the night, It's her words we try to recall, And if we are shameless of our pain, We dial her up, Hold her on the phone for hours, Not thinking about whether or not She too has children, or a garden, Or a husband who's leaving Because he can no longer Stand the mice roaming in the cupboard Which she refuses to kill Because she wants to drive them out gently. We laugh at her when we gather, Sometimes to her face, Which she takes in good part Even while saying "You'll see," And we do see sometimes, Though we are always newly astonished That someone could hold that askew-view Perpetually, instead of only now and then. When we think we need God, We speak about it timidly to her, And usually her only, As if she were a purveyor of pornography Or other specious wares, And we not wanting to be known to be a customer. She doesn't tell us we need God, But only confirms that we have something like a soul, needing water like a plant, Though which plant and body of water She refuses to say, only nourishing us with a taste of it Through her listening and her rare words. Her words too are signs, reminiscent Of the signposts of old, though more intriguing Through being more abbreviated and scant. She lets us be, and it seems so rare and refreshing Just to be let be, to share her sun, To live under the same stars With someone who seems to breathe sun and stars, And breezes and antelopes and gazelles and tigers, All in one. Her rare earth is ours, for a while, And though she can't explain it to us, And doesn't try with phrases and such, We respond like heliotropes and sunflowers To her being, and go away feeling refreshed. There comes the time, though, when we lose her, Whether through our mortal dereliction or her own, And we reach to try to preserve the intangible, To recover the spirit that even those lazy children We once were seemed to recognize in themselves. And when we ask, from our deathbed or hanging solicitously over her in her moment of departure, "Tell us, which road shall the funeral cortège take?" Seeking either her last advice or her last wish, She says but "The only road in town." And we are thrown into tactless confusion, Scrambling to assign a coherent meaning To words that seem much like the signposts of old, Contradictory, sublime, but oxymoronic all the same. It may be then at that moment that she restores us To the common lot, the way of it all, To our not being doctors, or lawyers, or merchants, Or even mystics, but to a being we can rejoin Now that we have completed this leg of our journey, This fine spectacle of a wayfaring, This conundrum of existence, And we are she, and she is we, and then someone departs, Via the only road in town.
©by Victoria Leigh Bennett, 4/28/18