Within and Without

I found a reading chair yesterday for $15 at Salvation Army. After a ton of Lysol, a sheet to cover it, and some other small additions, I now have a functional, albeit work-in-progress reading corner. I christened it this morning...

In keeping my promise to Annie Dillard, I worked through another two chapters of her book, "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," this morning. The second chapter I read was entitled "The Present," and the first portion called to me enough that I had to force myself to finish the chapter before my mind slipped into reflection.

I became conscious of this world almost 29 years ago. I may not remember it, but even the days I don't remember made me who I am today. Those 29 years now belong to this mythological entity we call "The Past." I've always been intrigued by history - particularly the parts of it that happened before I was born - because there's no way for me to REALLY know if it ever actually happened. Seeing as everybody has a different spin on historical events, I often can't help but think sometimes that we're all in "The Matrix," and this is just a big hoax.

In this chapter, Dillard alludes to how self-consciousness robs us of our capacity to experience the present. She's right again. Somewhere in my childhood or adolescence, I learned self-analysis and became self-conscious. I found such a fascinating query (my own brain) that I think I may have been (and am probably still) trapped in the stifling world of introspect since then, and in turn, cut off from the world around me. I've exchanged the real thing for some alternative reality I've imagined. And what have I really figured out? I still use less than 10% of my brain, and haven't really discovered anything that hasn't been discovered before.

I realized this morning in my readings that I'm not sure I have ever really believed the world existed/will exist outside of MY existence. (i.e. when I'm born, the world is born with me...when I die, it dies with me.) I hate that.

Now, this doesn't stem from me thinking the world revolves around me (though I'm hardly exempt from such shallow thought). It stems from the fact that I've been so very wrapped up in solving the Rubik's cube in my head that I've forgotten the world exists outside of it.

I like Dillard's artistic, yet logical take on the world. The nature of the Scientific thought process is sort of a trapping process where we catch, classify, categorize and compartmentalize. The world is so vast and alive, however, that trying to do this is like trying to catch every ounce of the fire hydrant's spray with little glass vials. In essence, one could argue that Science tries to harness this beast of a universe and confine it to a box that we can understand...it's like trying to find the end of infinity. In Dillard's artistic process, the goal seems to be exploring the wonders of the world simply to appreciate its greatness...it literally expands before our eyes, and we grow to love infinity.

Now, please don't hear me downing Science here. I love Science, and it's so very important. Along with helping us be good stewards of our habitat, the understanding that Science provides makes it possible for us to appreciate this world's greatness in ways otherwise inconceivable. I think this is why nerdy scientists are so lovable, because every day they learn new ways to love the world. I like Dillard's thought process because I've spent so much time in the Scientific process that I've forgotten to appreciate the world and its inhabitants...in essence, I've forgotten to live. What's the point of spending all of this time trying to understand if it doesn't ultimately drive us to appreciate and enjoy the world around us. I know, it's cliche, but that doesn't negate its truth. The question I'm wondering about now is: How can these two processes work in conjunction?

It seems I've got a very quickly growing list of resolutions for 2010, but this is one thing I'd really like to work on. I'd like to shift my gaze to without rather than within.

Dear Annie Dillard:

My first English class in college was taught by Ms. Brookhart. She was neither a professor nor a doctor, but was quite effective nonetheless. Brookhart was a small woman with a rootsy (not hippie) vibe to her, always cloaked in the faint smell of cigarettes...it's funny how that smell can actually be endearing on some people. She didn't really dress to impress because she didn't have to. She was just that cool.

A wise and pragmatic woman, she handed my first assignment back to me ungraded - quietly saying something to the effect of, "Mr. Stoner, don't be cute, just do the assignment." I thought it would be "creative" to write the first part of the story from the third person, then switch to first person at a clutch, pivotal moment in the plot line. Brookhart didn't. Regardless, I really grew to love Brookhart and ended up taking my next English class with her as well.

I know we read at least four or five books in her class that first semester, but I don't remember any of them except the one we never actually got to read in class. It's a book called "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" by Annie Dillard. For ten years now, I've been trying to read this book, but it ends up making me think so much, I've never actually gotten much past the beginning of chapter two because of these two sentences (but particularly the second one):

"It is still the first week in January, and I've got great plans. I've been thinking about seeing."

This makes my mind spin every time I read it. When I finally was able to get past those sentences, I read Dillard's brilliant descriptions of blind people LITERALLY seeing for the first time. She also made some irresistible allusions to the wonderment with which the innocent, beautifully naive eyes and minds of children perceive the world.

I've gone to see the movie "Avatar" thrice already at the local 3D IMAX theatre. Particularly when sitting close to the screen, which I'm starting to believe is the best way to view an IMAX movie, I found myself getting a bit seasick due to the 3D view. I quickly found that if I stop focusing on only a small portion (the main character/action) of the screen and broaden my view to take the whole thing in, the queasiness subsides. What a telling metaphor.

So much in our modern day culture hinges on us keeping our eye on the ball, that we miss the fact that there are 17 other people on the baseball diamond...hundreds more in the stands. When did we lose or dismiss the wonderment we experienced as children?

I was at Lowe's just before Christmas picking up something arbitrary for a job when the guy in line next to me tapped me on the arm, smiled, and pointed across the store saying, "Remember those days?" He was pointing at a little boy with what looked like his grandmother. The little boy was staring wide-eyed at all the huge inflatable Christmas decorations, laughing with wonder, and Grandma was eating it up. My eyes fixed on the boy and his grandmother, through a faint smile laced with melancholy, I quietly replied, "I sure wish I could," never actually meeting my line-mate's eyes.

The sentence that follows Dillard's first two loaded sentences is this: "There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises." She is so very right.

I will have owned my house for five years this March. This is my land and nobody else's, except maybe the bank's if I stop paying my mortgage...but they've got too many houses already...I think they want me to keep it. Regularly, I've groomed my lawn and cleaned up my house, covering every inch of my property countless times, but I'm not sure if I've ever really stopped to look at it. How am I ever to appreciate what I have if I never stop to look at it?

This makes me think of the other people in my life as well. How often do I really stop to look in their eyes, to truly connect with them? And we've got four other primary senses that we may be neglecting as well. When the native tribe in "Avatar" greet each other, they do so by looking deep into the others' eyes and saying, "I see you" but only after they actually "see" the other person. I want to know what that feels like.

The bad news: Who can tell how much we've missed by not seeing, etc.?
The good news: What's to stop us from doing so today? Childlike wonderment in our dull adult bodies sounds like a vibrant adventure waiting to happen.

* * *

Dear Annie Dillard:

It's the second week of January and I've got great plans. I've been thinking about seeing too.

sincerely,

graham

p.s. I'm finally on chapter four of your book, and I promise to finish it this month.
p.p.s. I see you.