Clouds: An Appreciative Essay

Cloud from the corner

I

I love clouds.  I could look at them all day, couldn’t you?  As a child, would often look upwards and just watch them.  I remember laying in the back of my parents car (this was before we constricted with seatbelts by state law) and looking out the rear window at a light blue sky peppered with altocumulus clouds.  My mother was having me play the game of seeing shapes in the clouds.  One cloud had the unmistakable profile of Goofy.  I could see the floppy hat and the long snout slightly curved with a nose that looked like an over-sized olive balancing at the end.  For a five year old it was something to see Goofy there in the clouds.  It was something more, before my very eyes, to see Goofy change and dissipate.  Yes, the movement of the clouds themselves became a source of delight.  I would watch them, the cumulus clouds pulling apart like a cotton balls and becoming thin and delicate before dissolving from sight.  I would watch the colossal cumulonimbus clouds that would continue to billow upward filling the sky with its snowy immensity. It was from watching the roiling, the passing, and dissipating clouds that I may have gotten an inchoate appreciation of the passing nature of things.  Just watching something changing before your eyes might make you think of the million-and-one other things changing and passing right under our noses.  Their passing beauty might lead to a consideration of Beauty itself…and that is not a bad thing, I think.

After Rain

“After Rain” Arkhip Kuindzhi

II

Nimbostratus clouds are the ones that bring rain or snow.  Basically, storm clouds.  Sometimes you can see them drifting close to the earth, their ragged bottoms looking could brush the ground below.  Other times, on rainy days, they appear as an indistinguishable monochromatic gray dome, screwed down overhead. These days are the dreary days.  But I learned that these clouds can sometimes can become darker, much darker.  As a child, I was riding through the Mississippi Delta with Mama, Grandma and Grandpa.  We were headed to my grandparent’s house in Greenville.  We had made it past Leland and were not far from the outskirts of town.  It was probably late spring, either the last of May or the first of June.  The fields that we passed were full of healthy cotton; you could make out a few white bolls peeping out here and there.  I loved looking at the passing cotton fields.  To my mind, if the cotton was planted properly, the seed rows would run perpendicular to the highway.  This created the most interesting visual effect.  From the window of our speeding car, the rows appeared to be whirling by, like the blades of some great telluric fan.  Sometimes, my face turned toward the window, I would make a noise, silently, loud enough for only me to hear, mimicking the sight from my window: “Shoo, shoo, shoo, shoo, shoo”.

The day promised rain for it had been overcast for most of the drive.  I was prepared for that, resigning myself to an afternoon of television at Grandma’s house.  We drove further, I lost in the rambling thoughts of a child, when I became aware of it.  The sky had darkened and darkened considerably; I mean really dark like a cast iron skillet.  The landscape, as far as the eye could see was shrouded in blackness- ominous and impenetrable.  It was an awful sight.  Unnerved, a feeling a dread washed over me.  The blackness pressing in on us seemed to be carrying more than rain.  It carried a Presence.   It felt apocalyptic, in the true sense of the word.  This storm was an unveiling and its revelation would suffer no dissembling.  There was nowhere to hide. The bubble-safe-world of my childhood was on the verge being plunged into depths I was scarcely ready to fathom.  I felt utterly defenseless before it.

Here is the strange thing.  Neither denying nor contradicting the feeling of defenselessness before the Presence within the storm, there arose a strangely harmonious sentiment.  Fascination.  As dark as it was, no sun it sight, everything that passed our window became radiant from the Presence.  The Presence was shrouded in darkness yet it was illumined and illuminating.  The Presence was a radiant darkness. How a darkness can be radiant I cannot even begin to explain. When the sun shone bright above any other time, the cotton seemed to spread out as a uniform, dull green carpet, stretching from the highway and vanishing into the horizon. But from this darkness, from this Presence everything became preternaturally vivid. The green of the cotton seemed at last to achieve the hue of green, for which it was meant.  It shone. It shined.  Each leaf seemed to articulate itself, each plant appearing to abide in its particular uniqueness. From the Presence each and everything seemed charged and crackling with new vitality.  The unveiling of the Presence unveiled the presences of all things allowing them to stand out and become more fully themselves.

III

At some point I took a break from my fascination of the clouds.  When did this happen?  Oh, I don’t know exactly.  I might be right in guessing that it occurred when I began to discover that other wonder of nature…girls.  They, too, seemed to float lightly about, filling the world with their enchantment.  To my poor-adolescent-boy-of-a-mind they were as elusive and unpredictable as the clouds themselves.  So naturally, they became singular sources of fascination.

When did it return, this love of the clouds?  Well, it sounds so hackneyed but it was probably when my wife and I began to have children.  Having children, you see, is a nice way of becoming reacquainted with the world.

Morning CloudsIV

For many years I taught at a high school near my home.  My room was on the second floor and situated across a hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling picture windows.  This was a real perk.  The perk came in being able to see the most stunning sun rises.  Now, I live in a suburb of Houston, Texas.  If you know anything about the place where I live, the coupling of “stunning sunrise” and “Houston, Texas” might qualify as a non sequitur.  But the given beauty of things cannot be altogether buried, try as we might with our tangled mass of power-lines and ubiquitous strip malls.  As I said the sunrises were spectacular.  Sometimes I would be treated to the cirrus clouds feathering the sky in soft lavenders and peaches.  Sometimes they’d come in like waves, lapping up from the horizon in indigo’s and oranges.  Other times, the expanse hung as a shimmering platinum sheet only few clouds resting upon it.  What they lacked in number they repaid lavishly in appearance, for they burned the firmament in fiery brilliance like droplets of molten gold fallen from the forge of Vulcan.

I remember one early morning before the start of school, I was leaving my room to go downstairs for a cup of coffee.  I stepped out and I saw a young man, probably a sophomore, sitting against the wall, caddy cornered from my door.  I say he was sitting but it was more like a slouch on its way to prostration.  He was like paint having been slopped against a wall and oozing downward, coalescing in a puddle. I offered a salutary nod in his direction that was not reciprocated. He had that sort of sleepy, blank, far away stare most high schoolers have at time of early morning.  Bathed in the sterile fluorescence of the lights above and dressed in clothing, the only contrast of which, was a few hues of black, he was lost in whatever sound that loudly blossomed from his ear buds.  It was a sort of dispiriting sight.

I continued on way to the lounge, checked my mailbox, got my coffee and then headed back upstairs.  As I turned down the long hallway leading to my room, from the large window at the opposite end, I was arrested by the most magnificent sight.  The cloud formation was of stratocumulus clouds that filled the entire breadth of the October sky.  Never, in nature, had I seen in such a mesmerizing interplay of color and texture.  The clouds canopied the heights in plush quilted cotton, lit underneath by the rising sun, rippling forth in peaches, purples, and violets that glowed like fire lit embers. To say it was spectacular is in no sense adequate to relay otherworldly the beauty of it.  I remember thinking, dazzled by the sight, “Now that just can’t be ignored; that is enough to stop a person cold in their tracks”.  And it happened; almost on cue the young fellow sitting down the hall and outside my room, rolled his head lazily in the direction of the window.  Like one overcome by the siren’s song, he picked himself off the floor, dusted off his pants, and walked toward the window.  He stood there for a brief moment and then did something that could fuel hours of contemplation.  While looking upon that sunrise with both hands he reached up and removed the ear buds. Stop and think of what that means.  Do not be too quick here.  He removed the sound from his ears so as to see with his eyes.

There are sacramental moments in life and that was one if there ever was one.    As I said, the scene is one worthy of hours of contemplation.  I come back to it often.

 

VChildren Contemplating Clouds

One of the earliest non canonical writings in Christianity is called the Didache.  It is believed to have been written somewhere between 60-120 AD.  It is an early catechism, if will.  It begins with these memorable lines “There are Two Ways, the one of Life and the one of Death, and great is the distance between them.” What does this have to do with clouds, you may ask?  Well seeing shapes in the clouds is a real skill mind you.  If you do not keep a certain sort of innocence, by which I mean you have become too practical, and therefore obtuse, this skill can be lost.  If you do not believe me go outside with, preferably, a small child, and, even more preferably, with a small child you know and see how many things you can see in the clouds. You’ll find the child seeing in a flash, castles, dragons, bears, squirrels, cars, and mountains; however, you’ll be standing there flatfooted only looking at amorphous blobs of moisture.  I tried doing it recently and what had once been done with the ease of water running downstream now had all the tortured work of deciphering a Rorschach.  What does this have to do with life and death, by which I mean Real Life and Real Death, you know the eschatological kind?  It has to do with the necessity of wonder, a wonder that takes delight that there is a world and the recognition of the privilege of being therein.  Wonder, you see, is the raison d’etre of a child. This is the essential difference between the child and the rest of us.  The child’s vision is clean.  Its vision is such that it can see the irreducible beauty of ordinary things and simply take delight in its loveliness.  That’s right, the ordinary things of the world.  You remember don’t you?  Ordinary things like fire flies, like Dandelions, like clouds. The child finds delight in these things where, now, you and I find only boredom.  And as one writer once noted, it is not only strange that we should find boredom before these things, it is also tragic, for “boredom is not neutral…it is the fertilizing principle of unloveliness.”  To my mind, living in a state of unloveliness is a fairly apt description of death.  The real kind.

(Update: I just went outside and looked at the altocumulus clouds above my home, in which, I am happy to report, I saw the unmistakable profiles of the Road Runner and Piglet.  This is undeniable proof that there is some hope for my immortal soul).

VI

Every summer my family and I take a vacation.  We usually head to west of Houston either to San Antonio or toward the Hill Country.  Traveling Hwy 290 away from Houston you leave the placidly flat region of the Coastal Plains and crossing into Washington County the landscape begins to rise like a swell upon the ocean.  It is a most remarkable sight, this geographic demarcation of plain and hill.  The further you go the rollers keep coming, rising and falling; you rising and falling with it.  The drive to our destination has become something I look forward to.  My wife will often make the drive going, so I will sit in the passenger seat and look out the window.  The big Texas sky is blue as a sapphire and is dolloped in white, the clouds above floating in wandering archipelagos.  I have learned that the sky and clouds of summer have a magnanimous friendship.  Each is fully content to let their own particular presence reveal the splendor of the other, so that the blueness of the sky makes the clouds whiter and the whiteness of the clouds makes the sky bluer.  If only we could do the same.

 

Texas GroveSometimes, in the distance, I will see a grove of trees, a dense patch of deep and dappled greens resting in the midst of the wide and open grassland.  Strange to say but I get the urge to ask my wife to stop the car and for all of us to get out and begin walking toward it.  I imagine the car pulling onto the shoulder, rattling and vibrating like a plane striking a runway.  The car slows and then comes to a stop.  We open the doors of the car and our ears are met with the violent rush of the speeding traffic, our bodies concussed by the trailing gusts of large semi-trucks as they smash the atmosphere before them.  We quickly step off the shoulder unto a sort earthly estuary where the gravel and trash of the highway and the grass commingle.  We begin making our way toward that grove of trees.  I imagine that walk.  I can feel us crossing in the tall grass, the spikelets caressing our hands as we move forward, dragonfly’s hovering and darting about around us.  At first our ears are still filled with the roar of the traffic behind but it gradually dissipates as we move further from the road.  The sun is hot overhead but there is a breeze, the breezes brushes the tall grass like a hand stroking velvet.  I can imagine a sort of decompression coming upon us the further we move from the rushing highway.  The chest seems to take deeper breaths and the stretched tension in the shoulders relaxes like rubber band going slack. We finally reach the grove, a mix of Texas Red Oak and Anaquas.  We enter the shaded grove and sit upon the ground.  The dense tree cover offers shade and consequently there is not as much grass.  Sitting here we become aware of little things that usually lay hidden like the smell of the moist soil that we sit upon.  In the trees above Carolina Wrens flit and hop about.  We no longer hear the highway but the sound of rustling leaves and the chirping grasshoppers.  We sit there silently and listen, resting in blessed presence of the unhurried world and one another.  Maybe we sit there all day, taking no thought plans, we sit there until the sun takes its leave and slowly sinks below the horizon, its fading light calling forth the fireflies, who become soft pulsating beacons, quietly ascending and descending in the tall grass stretching beyond us.

It has be such a long time since I have seen the fireflies.  Anyway, that is what I imagine.

One time, on our drive, I saw a buzzard circling in a lazy gyre above the clouds.  In my mind I found myself as a boy sitting in First Methodist Church in Maben, Mississippi.  It was a Sunday night in the summer and my Grandpa was delivering the evening message.  He stood before the small group of people spaced out in the pews, a small music stand before him to hold his notes.   I do not remember the subject of the sermon only a small vignette he shared of his own childhood growing up on his family’s place in Winterville, where they raised cotton.  He spoke of it being a summer day, said that he had found himself sitting underneath a tree to find some relief from the heat.  Leaning against the tree and looking out, Grandpa said that he remembered seeing two buzzards circling in the clouds above.  He said the watched them for a long while, the buzzards slowly spiraling higher and higher upon the updrafts until they could be seen no more.  “To this day, I have idea where those buzzards went”, he mused before us, with a slight chuckle and continued with on with his message.

His boyhood and my boyhood, at that time, was separated by fifty years.  He shared a memory that has become a part of my memory, a memory I am now sharing with you as a forty four year old man.  My memory of its telling is thirty years old but the actually occurrence is over eighty.  Why do I, why do we remember such seemingly random things?  I have no idea. Maybe time, among other things, is as an immensely wide flowing river that courses through our lives.  Upon the river floats all manner of people, places, and events that transpire before and within us.  Sometimes some piece of these, floating by, snags upon the banks of our memory.  We gather these washed up bits and pieces- a recollection of a face, a nursery rhyme we sang ourselves to sleep with, the damp smell of pine straw in November, – we gather these up and cobble together a humble shanty from which to dwell and watch the river.

All of this comes from just watching a buzzard among the clouds.

Once on another trip to San Antonio, in the distance, I caught sight of a cloud’s shadow.  I had the experienced, any number of times, being covered in the shade of the passing clouds above.  But this, this was different.  This was seeing the actual movement of a cloud’s shadow.  It was a bright, hot, windy day, intermittent gusts pushing suddenly against the car.  I could see the tall grass being blown about, swaying like kelp in tidal currents.  Only a few cumulus clouds dotted the sky.  One of the smaller ones decided to make a break for it and its shadow hurried along after.  It started from a high hill diagonally and to the front, moving quickly but gently toward us.  Fluidly as water, the shadow became as the very earth it raced across, wholly filling and forming itself to the ground’s contours. Few things are as graceful, as gentle, and as free as a cloud’s shadow.  As the roving shade moved closer I could see the tops of the tall grass swirling and waving from within it.  The nearer it came, the harder it became to see.  Finally, it passed over the highway and continued onward behind us.  It was over all too quickly.  But I am grateful to have seen it.  I often think back to that day and the seeing of the cloud’s passing shadow.  One ephemeral thing making another ephemeral thing. What sound does the passing cloud’s shadow make?  Nothing you can hear but everything you can feel.  It seems to be the very essence of silence.  It is the very sound of God.

VII

If only you could find the place where the sky and earth meet.

 

VIII

We sit at the red light that leads to our neighborhood. She plays with a necklace and I look up to watch the cumulus clouds, as is my custom in the summer.  Like heavenly armada they mass together, floating above, unhurried, unburdened.  Looking at one of the larger one’s overhead, I muse aloud to her, “I wonder what it would be like to be in a cloud?  I mean to be in it, not flying through it.”

“Heaven is in the clouds”, she replies unhurried, unburdened.

“Oh, that is true.”

“We’ll know what it’s like then”, she says, almost to herself.

Such a simple exchange, so unexpected, wholly unique and unrepeatable, like catching sight of a falling star.  The gold of life is spun from such moments.  Gather them up when you can.

Taking it up to hallow it, I look to the rear view mirror, and say, “I love you, Claire.”

“I love you, too.”

The light turns and we proceed homeward.

 

clouds-widescreen-wallpaper-13XI

They are composed of very miniscule water droplets or ice crystals, so tiny that they are light enough to float high above the terrestrial body.  They are formed when water vapor, in the air, is heated by the sun. The heated air begins to rise.  As it rises it cools and expands, some of the vapor condenses upon extremely fine dust particles floating in the, air becoming a tiny droplet of water.  When phenomenon is replicated billions of times over, a cloud appears. The water crystals are large enough to refract the wavelengths of light, coming from the sun; from this they have their white appearance.

Now this is how it happens.  Light passes through the clear gelatinous dome of the cornea.  Because the cornea is curved the light coming through the eye is bent.  The colored part of the eye, the iris, adjusts the size of the pupil, dilating or contracting depending on the amount of light trying to enter in.  The light continues on and meets the lens, laying behind the pupil, it focuses the light further, and unto the retina, an image.  The retina is delicate and sensitive photo tissue.  It contains photoreceptor cells that translates the illumined image into electrical impulses.  From the retina, these impulses travel along the optic nerve to the occipital lobe of the brain.  It takes only 13 milliseconds.  The eye is the conduit.  We actually see with our brains; that organ weighing three pounds, consisting of seventy five percent water and sixty percent fat.

What has been described above are the facts.  This is how clouds form.  This is how sight happens.  For us, this is a necessary condition for reality.

 

cloud-study-john-constable-tate-1455162394_b

“Cloud Study” John Constable

During the summers of 1821 and 1822 in Hampstead, England, a landscape painter began painting what he called, “cloud studies”.  In the beginning the studies include some terrestrial referent, a line of trees rooves of cottages, or the spire of a church.  However, on September 13, 1821, terra firma is left behind and he only paints the clouds themselves.  They are the most remarkable paintings.  Huge cumulonimbus clouds fill the canvas.  They are ethereal but they equally energetic; you can almost see the clouds billowing and flowing.  “I am a man of the clouds” he wrote to a friend of his.  For John Constable’s work, the sky and the clouds became, as he described, “…the keynote…the chief organ of sentiment.” Constable painted clouds with such detail, that meteorologists who have studied these paintings say that one can tell the time of year, even the hour of day from them.

In the early morning hours of December 15, 1899, French composer Claude Debussy,

Claude_Debussy_ca_1908,_foto_av_Félix_Nadar

Claude Debussy

completed his Nocturnes.  They were inspired after wick of his imagination was sparked by a series of paintings he’d seen on exhibition in London, by the American painter, James McNeill Whistler.  Whistler’s series was entitled Nocturnes.  In the introductory notes, Debussy said of his own Nocturnes, “[t]he title Nocturnes is to be interpreted…in a decorative sense…it is not meant to designate the usual form of the Nocturne, but rather all the various impressions and the special effects of light that the word suggests.”

There are three movements to Debussy’s composition, the first of which is entitled “Nuages” or “Clouds”.  He said of this movement, “’Nuages’ renders the immutable aspect of the sky and the slow, solemn motion of the clouds, fading away in grey tones lightly tinged with white.”

When the first few notes greet the ear they enter the imagination and speak of banks of clouds making their pensive procession across the gloaming.

Whistler

“Nocturne in Black and Gold The Falling Rocket”- James McNeill Whistler

Nocturne in Black and Gold The Falling Rocket

Concerning Constable and Debussy, these are the facts, the facts of reflective and creative imagination.  And these facts depend on material facts, such as those governing the formation of clouds and the possibility of sight. The physical fact, the relationship between visible object and eyesight, is not something we can control.  To have eyes open is to look at what is there.  But there is a great difference between and looking and seeing.  Some people gaze upwards and look only at floating vaporous aerosols and then move on with their day.  They do not see dragons or kittens, much less entrusting that image to paint and canvas or committing it to music.  But some do.  And the fact that they do cannot be reduced to only material facts, as necessary as they are.  Even the fact that there are things to be seen- clouds, cotton fields, hawks, shadows- and thing that sees- you and I- are literally unanswerable from the material facts themselves. Likewise for there to be paintings, orchestral arrangements, or even reflective memory on clouds, the material facts themselves are not enough.  The material facts alone could neither explain the cloud studies of Constable nor Debussy’s “Nuages”.  For that explanation you need something further. Something like wonder.  Something otherworldly. Something like love.

But that is for another essay.

Until then, go out and enjoy the clouds.

Clouds Above Almond Spring Drive

To Think and Read: Philosophy and the Encounter With Literature

Rembrandt Philosopher in Meditation

Philosopher in Meditation by Rembrandt

There is much that could be said here and when I started to put my thoughts together I quickly found that this could grow to such a length that it would strain my abilities and your patience.  My only claim will be philosophy is the work of reason and literature is the work of the imagination.  Yet, these are not as far apart as one might think.  They, in many ways, must proceed together or at the very least complete each other’s thoughts, as old married couples are wont to do. There is no irony in the fact that philosophers have used images to put flesh and bone to their abstract meditations.  Socrates expressed greed for images, Plato had his Cave, Descartes his Evil Demon, and Nietzsche his prophesying Madman.  Likewise, the imagination is strengthened by reason.  For even for the starving artist faithful to Keeping Austin Weird could derive some benefit from Goya’s observation “Imagination abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters; united with her, she is the mother of the arts and source of their wonders.”  So much for Dan Brown.  So much for Descartes.

Furthermore, in discussing philosophy and literature, it would be of no little interest to understand the reality that brings these two to birth- language. For it is the mark of language that it is both intelligible, syntactical, and inherently image laden. Language is that strange symbolic phenomena expressed in varying vocalizations and written signs that tether us to the world like an anchor.  The strangeness of language lies, particularly, it its paradoxical quality; that peculiar quality of being powerful to enough to open a window on the very beginnings of the cosmos yet seemingly impoverished and inadequate to fully express one’s love or sorrow.

I suppose the best way or maybe the only way that I can address this topic is to speak of my own encounter with these.  I should say, that unless you have had your own experience with these, what will be said here today will be of little use to you.  Furthermore, I should say at the outset that my comments will not proceed in the manner of argumentation but of reflection.  You see I love philosophy and literature and whatever is loved should be given a dignified treatment.  That which is loved must not be discussed speech of experts, much less philosophy or literature professors. Furthermore, literature leads to philosophizing but philosophy may be expressed imaginatively or poetically. Either way, though they are, properly, different pursuits each leads, albeit in different ways, toward the contemplation of existence sparked by wonder. You may have your doubts and fair enough.  But these are my reflections and you will have to trust me or at least bear with me.

As a child, I and a friend of mine, while jumping on a trampoline, stumbled upon, quite naturally for children, on what Heidegger called the basic metaphysical question, “why is there something rather than nothing?”  As the sun set and the day began to cool into dusk we continued our jumping and giggling with astonishment that things actually exist and wondering where they come from.  But indulging this new found discovery was not something typically discussed in school and given my lack of discipline for anything that I thought more pedestrian I sort of floated through the whole experience.  As a fairly lazy student my antennae would never register any interest unless the class discussion wandered into one of those tangential discussions that had larger implications beyond the fairly prosaic facts and figures.  At that time I did not have a formal name for this interest.  I was unable to articulate what it was about these questions that interested me. Nevertheless, at some point a possibility occurred to me.  Maybe around twelve, I was sitting in a mimosa tree with my friend Chris Britt and the discussion turned to what we wanted to do when we grew up.  I don’t remember his response but mine is clear as a day.   “I want to be a philosopher,” I said matter of factually.  “What do they do?” Chris asked.  “I’m not sure. I think they talk about life and stuff.  You know, like Plato.”  Well, he didn’t know and we looked at each other for a moment and moved on.  To this day, I have no idea of where that thought came from.  It would another twenty years before I began a formal education in philosophy.

As far as reading goes, for many years, Where the Side Walk Ends by Shel Silverstein was ever present friend and never far out of reach.  However, I had an aversion to anything that looked like a novel, as having to sit still that long to read seemed insufferably boring.  However, in middle school it took something of an even greater boredom, in the form of Mrs. Gifford’s study hall, which drove me to look for some respite.  And so it was that I came across the fantasy series, the Prydain Chronicles, by Lloyd Alexander.  Those books opened up a world that I scarcely knew existed, the world of imaginative fiction.  I was hooked and I have been more or less hooked ever since.

My junior year of high school was the first time that I became consciously aware that philosophy, that thing that talked about life and interested me so, could be found in that other new found love, the reading of imaginative fiction.  I had one particular teacher (isn’t it always one particular teacher?)  Mrs. Crane, short and petite, having the most charming of Southern drawls, who introduced us to short stories that actually touched upon life in the way that interested me.  Through their imaginative power, these stories had me consider deeper philosophical questions.  From “Harrison Bergeron”, by Kurt Vonnegut, came the question of what is the ultimate value of equality. From Ray Bradbury’s “The Sound of Thunder”, the ethics of technology and what are the consequences of the smallest actions upon history.  From Flannery O’Connor’s, “Good Country” the nature of evil and the religious dimension in life.  In conjunction to these great works of fiction she would encourage us to think deep thoughts.  In particular, there was one thing she’d come back to and remind us of again and again.  She would look at us with large clear eyes and say, “In all that happens to you try to search for the deeper meaning.”  Such advice, I am sure, seemed to her at times, as being seed cast upon stony earth, but those stories and her encouragement awakened something within me.

“To search for the deeper meaning.”  This, in time, became and is my aim in life.  And in small but no less important addition to religious faith, philosophy and literature have helped me to understand my own life.    Actually, I think Mrs. Crane’s advice is sage wisdom for anyone, even you sitting here enduring the sound of my voice.  Walker Percy, in the novel, “The Moviegoer” has one of his characters ruminate on what he calls the search.  “What is the search?  It is really quite simple…the search is what anyone would attempt if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life.”  Philosophy and literature allow a person to take a hand to the veil of everydayness and pull it back to see what depths of meaning the world actually reveals. Because I believe unless you do this whatever you do manage to do will ultimately come up to nothing.  That sounds pretty harsh but life is pretty harsh.  If you don’t believe me wait.  Let life, at times, come in as an unwelcomed guest take from you without asking or without apology, maybe even knock you around a bit.  And maybe you might get around to asking yourself some philosophical questions, “What in the hell is going on?”  “What is the point of all this.”  “Is this all there is?”  Maybe you might have all this going on, even if unconsciously, and come across a passage in a novel or poem, whereby you might see an image of what you are going through now.  Then you might have hit upon the cathartic element in imaginative fiction that lets you see, vicariously, your life and its possibilities.  Maybe through that work you will have your predicament named for you whereby you could exclaim “That is it!” and yours be the shock of a man having found what he scarcely thought was lost.

The late novelist, Eudora Wetly said something that I think is important to our present discussion.  She said:

“The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time but their significance to ourselves find their own order…The time we know subjectively is often a chronology that stories and novels follow: it is the continuous thread of revelation.”

girl in book store

Girl in Bookshop

The events in our lives, when considered in the light of philosophy and literature prepare one for this revelation, the revelation of that deeper meaning, for which we should all be searching.   For me one particular revelation is the meaning of the human face.  The philosopher, Emmanuel Levinas, wrote much about the meaning of the human face and the implications the face of the other has on ethics.  I have often reflected on his thoughts on this subject and he argues quite powerfully for his position that the face reveals an infinity.  That has always struck me as powerful but it was not until I had a particular experience about a year ago that crystallized what he was saying.  The experience was quite profound for me and revealed something for me that I wanted to commit to writing.  Now let me say that I’m an amateur writer, which is to say I am a terrible writer with illusions of grandeur, who is more than willing to visit his inane ramblings on anyone who is too polite to decline or too unfortunate to escape.  So here you are:

“With an arm propped on the driver’s side door, my head rests wearily in an opened palm as I make my way home. I’m increasingly impatient to arrive as the long day seems to lengthen from the haltingly slow traffic moving like an irregular pulse along an asphalt artery. Occasionally, I cast a bored glance toward my fellow commuters, noting expressions, either exasperated or vacant. Some are lost in a digital oblivion that knows no interruption, save by the honking of a horn or the alarming reality of the bumper ahead. For a time, I too, am lost in miasma of thought, a sort of low and foggy cognizance that is there but never forming toward something definite. And then, from the corner of my eye, I happen to catch the gaze of someone passing by. She is a small child of no more than six years, with eyes large and dark, deeply and richly dark, like freshly tilled earth into which the wide and variegated world might be sown. As she passes by, I manage to offer her a slight smile. She returns with a smile of her own before moving ahead. It lasts but a moment though just long enough for the everydayness to be lifted. The manner of her smile, delicate and unburdened as a dew laden web at dawn, discloses our shared re-cognition of that Goodness, whereby the wandering of the old burnt and wearied world might at last find a home. She is soon out of sight. But I am left with a definite thought: what is it in a smile or even more, in the face of an-other person, which may uncover an entire horizon? Drawn deeply into that unveiled mystery, I make my way home.”

To try to give you the experience of which Mrs. Crane spoke is impossible.  You have to see it for yourself.  In cannot be had vicariously.  For you, it would have all the impossibility of vicariously experiencing the taste of some particular dish from the mouth of another man.

If this world has not seized you by the collar and given you a good shake before all its strangeness and wonder, you have not lived. You may become old and gray but your years will stretch and fade behind you as so many thoughtless miles on a forgotten highway.

With that, I would encourage you, if you have not done so, to think and read or at the very least, to think of reading.