Lost Blogger

For some years I used to follow a blog of a very sincere Buddhist of the atheistic bent who lived on his own in a city in Arizona.  His blog was part of a web page designed with Nvu, the open source web page editor.  The web page itself had no design pretensions and consisted of links to other material including some photo galleries. There were several educational Buddhist items in the web page. A lot of the material concerned his life including his time with a poor family in Central America . He helped this family with money, skills and labour and was godfather to the children of the separated couple.   One senses that the poor peasant family did not understand him. It would seem from his narrative that this experiment did not work out and eventually he returned to the USA.  He was still bonded with the children and their drifting away as they grew older was a source of sadness.  He had spend some time in India studying Buddhism.   He was a highly trained computer programmer and had worked on genetics programming and was interested in the fusion of technology and the sustainable future of man.  He had spent much time, in the warmer months, living very simply in the woods.

His regimen in the small flat was worthy of a monk who had taken the precepts.  There were set periods for meditation, exercise and pious reading.  He was very diligent about his vegan diet. He was maybe a little obsessive about his health. He took pride in his notice board which recorded the meditation sessions each day and the exercise taken in winter which consisted of walking up and down the stairs. He kept a blog in the web page with entries concerning his daily life, opinions, observations and problems. Sometimes it might be only a few lines and other times several paragraphs.  He had turned 70 and, as typical at this age, felt his powers failing and was overly introspective. You might say he was a bit eccentric but, of course, any lay person who lives apart and puts an effort into the quest for enlightenment will appear eccentric, or worse.  This man seemed incredibly alone yet he had made a dignified and worthwhile life by the honour of his purpose.  It was the specialness of his life which drew me to him and kept me reading his blog.  All of a sudden he wrote that he was going on a retreat, then the web page disappeared. When the web page went I felt I had lost a friend. This is one of the oddities of our technological life that in reality we are dealing with blips which can disappear at a click. I think now that perhaps his disappearance was a natural conclusion of his journey. I think of the lines of Chia Tao (777-841) (Trans. Lin Yutang)

I asked the boy beneath the pines.
He said, 'The master's gone alone
Herb-picking somewhere on the mount,
Cloud-hidden, whereabouts unknown.'

Family History for the Diffident

I suppose I am in the post-family history stage having solved the puzzle of my ancestors and produced a monograph which was given to immediate relatives.  I found this process very satisfying and when the job was done I was a little bereft of something to do.  There are, of course, bits and pieces to correct and some fascinating 'brick walls', but the old passion has gone and I now rarely look at my voluminous spring back files so assiduously compiled.  I was never one for collections of names in a database which seems to attract some genealogists (those databases with say 20,000 entries with little substantively known about 95% of them).   I basically wanted to find out whom my parents were and place them in the context of their time.  The family history starts with my parents and goes back in time.  This is perhaps different from the usual family history which begins with the earliest ancestor record or immigrant ship.  The first chapter is about my family and its life which I think is a little unusual. The book is divided into a chapter for each marriage pair and ends with those pairs several generations away.  So it is not a family history as such but the familial history of my parents.

For the diffident person family history holds it perils especially when you find a kins-person  you have never spoken to and then have to manage an ephemeral  relationship. Fielding long distant telephone calls with the new-found kin can be stressful. Your natural shyness wants you to hold back but your eagerness for progress with the job drives you on.  These people are sort of bonding with you but really they know nothing about you.  There is warmth and new friendship but I have found this quickly peters out. What you find out is that you really have little in common  and they fade into oblivion.  The connection is really just a passing frisson and curiosity. This sort of connection in my experience extends to family history societies.  Each member is interested in their particular subject but only minimally interested in their fellow researchers.  As a group they are fairly straight-laced and conservative. I am not sure why this is - perhaps the hip are more focused on the present. Essentially they are dull places where it is hard to find real conviviality. Again when you have essentially finished  your task the need for the society ends too. There are, of course, the long timers in the society but usually they have finished their project and remain on as committee-people, self-appointed experts and gleeful trainers.

Thoreau's Christmas

I worked a few years in Washington DC and a familiar lunch-time walk along Massachusetts Avenue was to Kramerbooks near Dupont Circle.  I was then very enamoured of  Henry David Thoreau (I still am but it is more like an  old marriage now);  one day under his marvellous spell I brought the two quarto volume Dover Publications edition the The Journal of  Henry David Thoreau (the fourteen volumes bound as two). This bookshop still exists but now is linked to a coffee shop. The Dover Thoreau cost me quite a bit and as I lugged it back to my office I chided myself for being too infatuated with HDT and too indulgent with my money. Now this book is not really one you would open and read for entertainment.  It is a monument to be savoured on the shelf  and a reverential dipping-in book.  You dip into the entries which read mostly like an extraordinary naturalist's note book with painstaking and minute descriptions of  the natural world around Concord. The exception to this are the earlier years when Thoreau is more 'philosophical'. To slurp up these digressions I have another small Dover book called The Heart of Thoreau's Journals which contains his philosophical extracts. For many years now I only open my Thoreau journals on Christmas Morning when I am in a nostalgic mood charged by the numinous expectations of secular Christmas Day. This takes me back to my three years in Washington and how I have travelled since then. If I wish to see how Thoreau spent his Christmas for any year I am usually disappointed for Christmas seems the briefest interlude between his rambling in the woods. I surmise Christmas was a more restrained event then and the Thoreau family might have just gathered around the table for a special meal and some exchange of small presents.  This was a more dignified and wholesome age in which the festive day existed for the ordinary folk and not for the industrial complex and its garish and profane manipulations of appetites.

Making Soul

An important ah moment happened in my reading of James Hillman's Re-Visioning Psychology  (Harper Colophon, 1977) and it concerns the notion of 'making soul'.  Being a post-Jungian it is perhaps not surprising that Hillman should put a value on soul, however his idea of soul being made by the inculcation of culture, or by another name, the liberal arts, can claim some originality.  The art and science of  fiction, history, biography, poetry or philosophy is the raw material for making soul.   Hillman does nod to the Romantics as a precursor of his thesis.  Soul here has no religious or metaphysical connection.  I will particularly cite history in this respect. Reading history helps us explain the past, but it also is very important in making soul.  What would the Western soul be without the narratives of Salamis, Athens versus Sparta,  King Alfred, 1066, the Crusades or the Somme? Where would national soul be without  the stories of Trafalgar,  Henry VIII, Louis Quatorze, Gallipoli?  In the making of soul it does not matter if the events are absorbed with misunderstandings or falsehoods or even shameful aspects; they all go into the soul making process.  Neither is it reprehensible if the acting out of these soul-myths is irrational, offensive to some or even slightly absurd. This process might be better understood in the higher educational establishments which are so focussed upon reason and scholarship that they forget that it is the entire man which is being engaged in the educative process. The educative business of scholarship can go on alongside a more sympathetic treatment of soul making and its place in the full life. 

Larkin: Not Nice But Loveable

Moping around the local library I alighted upon Philip Larkin: Letters to Monica and decided to revisit this book.   Here read again was his rather prejudiced and curmudgeonly view of life. His  disparaging of  foreigners, immigrants, the lower orders, even his privileged academic milieu.  Larkin was at base a life-hater, a people hater, an everything mediocre hater.  Letters to Monica  also reveals how fragile was his psychology; his mental constitution was dominated by acute sensitivities and chronic aversions. He had a morbid fear of illness and death. He did not like to impose on or intrude upon others. He could not overtly self-promote even when he was being recognised as a major poet. An essentially lonely man he spend much effort in avoiding 'people'. He declined invitations for visiting lectureships in the USA.  He detested foreign travel. Like a lot of lonely people he escaped his affliction by work ('the toad'), a select correspondence and a few friendships. He did not seem capable of intimate relationships but no doubt had a 'sort of loving' for women. Monica was his soul-mate, she sharing many of his artistic tastes, conservative politics and habitual drinking  His admiration and affection was for books, the arts, literary figures and a nostalgic idealised England.

I discovered his poems  in thin faber and faber  paperbacks with poor quality paper published in the 1980s, The Whitsun Weddings, The North Ship, and High Windows.  I was stimulated by his  poetic skill which captured so succinctly the ferment of ordinary places and people. He was not unlike John Betjeman in seeking a blend of the comic and tragic, although Betjeman had a more kind and wholesome view of life. I was informed about his problematic personality and circumstances by Andrew Motion's  Philip Larkin: A Writer's Life and his own all-revealing Letters To Monica

Perhaps here is the kind of poet that one should not to probe into for fear of spoiling the poetic image, the stand alone value of the work (Lord Byron might be a good example).  I would disagree if only for the reason that I think the truth of the poet as man better elucidates  the poetry.  And in the truth of the poet we can discern the soil of the poem, it humus of time and place.  His cribbed and despairing life was not uncommon in a Britain of cold war angst, the bomb, and the social overhang of the War.  Ordinary people were not so converted to the need to appear nice and amiable. This was a time of character which cannot be faked.  I can appreciate his disdain for pose or self-improvement mantras or cosmetic gimmicks so popular for the media-primed artist of our time.  Those who create art out of a bare witness to reality produce the better art. And they seem to draw the sympathy from the reader and become vulnerable and almost loveable.

Day of a Stranger - Thomas Merton

What strikes you about Thomas Merton is the sheer likeability of the man.  He is a 'true man of no status' , a universal man, a shy man without a mask, perhaps what we might term in the local argot 'a good bloke'.  Towards the end of his life he wrote an essay called Day of a Stranger, (1981, Intro. Robert E. Daggy), the word 'Stranger' denoting one who is an outsider to the modern technological world, puzzled by the drives and ambitions of ordinary folk.  This little pamphlet-like work is interspersed by Merton's own black and white photographs from around the hermitage.  Unlike a lot of images in 'spiritual' writing these enhance and do not detract from the text. Of all his writing I think this essay best shows the essence of his personality and where he had arrived at in 1965.  This was an a time when he had just begun to settle into living in his hermitage in the woods at the Abbey at Gethsemani in Kentucky. He had gained separation (in part) from the suffocating world of the abbey life, what he called a 'hot environment' meaning one where busyness ruled if only in a institution of religious men fretting over purpose and meaning.  It reminds one of the atmosphere of modern bureaucracy where all must be engaged and transmitting messages, all is movement and flight. The content is not as important as that one is seen as a party to this game of exchanging messages. Merton had at this time also ripened in his understanding of  Eastern thought, of Zen, Taoism and Buddhism in its various facets. He appears to have adjusted his Christian view to find a place for this wisdom; or perhaps he was heading in the opposite - a place for Christianity in Eastern spirituality. Just to read Day of a Stranger is a 'blessing', a release from the craziness of a particular day and an odd sense of being in a still point with Merton in his hermitage in the woods, with his bare attention to the simple surroundings of the new home and the loveliness of the little piece of Kentucky nature where he lived and had his being.  Here is a self-dialogue from Day of a Stranger

--Why live in the woods?
--Well you have to live somewhere.
--Do you get lonely?
--Yes, sometimes.
--Are you mad at people?
-- No.
--Are you mad at the monastery?
-- No.
--What do you think of the future of monasticism?
--Nothing. I don't think about it.
--Is it true that your bad back is due to Yoga?
--No
--Is it true that you are practising Zen in secret?
--Pardon me, I don't speak English.

Plate 46 from Day of a Stranger

Haiku

I recently posted some self-authored haiku.  I should say that they are in the style of haiku rather than haiku.  They do not follow strict metrical patterns and some are even not about nature or the human in the setting of the natural. I am indebted to R. H. Blyth for the insight I have into haiku, in particular its origins in Japanese Zen Buddhism.  Reading the magisterial four volume Haiku (The Hokuseido Press 1975), first published in 1949, has been the core of my  induction into this gentle art.  I only possess Volume I. Eastern Culture, and have wanted the remaining volumes; I have been put off by the approximately $500 cost. Fortunately the local library had the remaining three volumes,  No. II, Spring, No. III, Summer-Autumn, and No. IV, Autumn-Winter.   Every page of Haiku is infused with the mystique of Zen and one can only surmise that  Blyth had both a scholarly understanding of the art of haiku as well as a deep appreciation of its origins in Buddhism and Zen in particular. It is clear from reading Blyth that the 'study' of Zen is the royal road to haiku both as a reader and practitioner. Blyth also compares the sentiments in haiku to extracts from Western literature which provides a unique view into the occidental genre.

I would say that Section II, of Vol. I of Haiku, Zen, The State of Mind for Haiku, is one of the most moving and profound things I have read. In this section Blyth draws from the qualities that characterise Zen and relates them to the mind of the haiku poet with examples of haiku.

1. Selflessness
2. Loneliness
3. Grateful acceptance
4. Wordlessness
5. Non-intellectuality
6. Contradictoriness
7. Humour
8. Freedom
9. Non-morality
10. Simplicity
11. Materiality
12. Love
13. Courage. 

Pumkin  Mushakoji Saneatsu
Plate 19 from Haiku by R.H. Blyth