Wednesday, April 13, 2011

"Know thyself" ~ Socrates

Another seemingly effortless study of the human condition, particular to knowing one's self and then letting one's true self being known by others. Matthew Arnold has the ability to portray the deepest human desire as well as our greatest fear to be truly known and exposed to those we love, friends and or family. This can be such an excruciating experiment as we learn who is worthy of that ultimate trust and faith, and often cast the pearl of who we are before the metaphorical swine. But what are our options really? To live a life at arms length from everyone benefits no one. Least of all ourselves. I wonder what kind of society we would have if we could all be seen as we really are and for who we are trying to be.


The Buried Life
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be—
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity—
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us—to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but 't is not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only—but this is rare—
When a belovèd hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd—
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.

Monday, April 11, 2011

“Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls.” ~ Voltaire

Sometimes the words artfully crafted by another feel as if they sprang from your own soul. For me, poetry has often been a means of experiencing this phenomena. Here is one poem I could read over and over again and feel its meaning anew.


One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster

.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Where can I turn for peace...where is my solace...when other sources cease to make me whole...

This past weekend was truly a gift for me. I have been longing for a deep connection and this weekend I had a powerful opportunity to experience that. As I have mentioned before I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS), what most people know as the Mormon church. Twice a year the LDS church has a worldwide conference consisting of five 2 hour sessions over the period of 2 days. During these sessions the leaders of the church, both men and women, speak on individually selected topics concerning the tenets of the faith. Held in Salt Lake City, UT, this conference, what we call General Conference, is broadcast to the world via internet, radio, and satellite. During this weekend of spiritual feasting we have an opportunity to hear from a living Prophet and many other special witnesses of Jesus Christ. I have viewed these conferences for most of my life and have found great comfort and enlightenment in them, particularly in how to feel closer to God and Jesus Christ. But this past weekend will be one which I shall never forget. Every speaker, both male and female, seemed to speak to my heart as well as my mind. A peace was granted to me unlike any I have ever felt before through the constant stream of reminders I received that God is aware of me, Jenielle Bailey, and that he loves and lifts me through my daily struggles. He is providing me with a variety of experiences both pleasant and challenging that are drawing me closer to Him as well as helping me to be more like Him in how I interact with others. To the world perhaps this may seem incredulous, perhaps even naive. But I know what I have seen and felt and no worldly snubbing can bring me to deny it nor be ashamed of it. I rejoice in the love I was able to feel so sincerely and continue to feel when I take the time to reflect on it. How grateful I am for the peace granted to me by a very flawed and imperfect faith in loving divine parents and a Savior who knows me better than anyone in this world. I hope to be a better person each day because of these tender mercies.