Book of Hours

As if in manuscript,

our days and hours
drift, as they will,
like autumn leaves
falling from a tree.

Pages turn,
although some marginalia
tries to overcome errata
by means of a tenuous grip
on aging parchment,
so to further one conversation
over another.

Pages turn,
witnessing the passing
of time and place,
and people.

As the pages turn,
we remember
the counterpoint
of joy and woe
as a fuller music,
more strident,
even more poignant,
though now we sense it
as a gentler melody.

As the pages turn,
a time will come
when we are there no longer
to witness or feel the change,
and no witness left to us.

Pages turn;
for now, awareness and being
are grounded in being fully here,
of mind and spirit,
while we can be,
to greet the subtle music
of sun and moon,
even as the body
drifts away, towards
a different kind of voyage.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

waterlines

water still,

while sun flows overhead,
glassy surface warm,
belying cool currents below,
belying captivating tensions

above, birds skim,
below, fish swim,
neither world meeting
except unexpectedly, by chance,
via ripples, winds, or thrashing waves

change is more inevitable
than darkness or death,
so long as parallel lives
have equal freedom
to breathe

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Point

Many people ask the difficult question,
“What is the point?”

This = ,
this point,
this is where we meet;
this is a place, both metaphorical and real:
now.

There may have been a before,
which speaks to some other point of fact or being,
or may even indicate a point of origin,
if such is possible,

But this is the here-and-always-now,
the ultimate point on which we must focus our attention—
all comings and goings depend upon ti,
all shall-be and ever-beens, as well—
the turnings of universes within universes
rely on how well met we are at this point.

Shall we dance like angels on the head of a pin?
The point is what we make of it, within it,
whether guiding or following it as a moving path,
in lines or waves,
flowing on it as a stream,
surrounding it, avoiding it,
on point or off,
melding into or averting from
(rendering either a going and a return
or a point of departure)…

Now is always;
whether we “decide” to meet there or not,
now happens,
here, there and everywhere.

Now is the wellspring of creation,
the hub,
the crux,
the point of being
and, more to the point,
of beingness.

How shall we make our point?
How shall we be?
What shall we do?

Now is an opportunity that requires action
(for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health),
but action depends on how we define our point.

Shall we dance?


© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Quieter Condensations

The circles of my life are ever widening;
like the rings shaped in the pool by the falling tear,
of joy or of sorrow;
they reach out with hands that are joined,
or will be joined,
or will be joined again,
in the passing moment,
on a rose-scented breeze.

I have discovered two things in my life,
only two things of meaning, of worth,
and these two truths I know,
or apprehend:
Love and Unity.

These truths,
these beings of light,
rise up with the sun,
quietly scented, ascendant evaporations
of quieter condensations:
the collected dreams and thoughts
of all our days and all our ways,
to come and gone,
and shimmering most Now.

These rise up, offering in beauty
the better parts of us,
individual and communal;
our hopes and aspirations fly with them,
unbeknownst,
yet palpably singing a soft evolution,
an unfolding,
like the nascent bud,
whose unraveling releases its sweet and unending scent
into the breezeways of consciousness,
so that I can tell you this Now.

And as the circles of my life ever widen,
I know that Love and Unity
are met in me,
and that, starting now and ever,
and with all my befores,
and all my latters,
I shall wake,
I shall wake and keep waking,
as i rise, As I Rise, AS I RISE
with the quietly rose-scented, ascendant evaporations
of quieter condensations.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Camera stellata: A Place of Creativity

The Star Chamber. This was a special judicial council in England, from the late middle ages to the end of Henry VIII’s reign. The term has become a pejorative to describe secret meetings, where illegal or unfair decisions are made, against which there is no recourse. This information is neither here nor there, as far as this post is concerned.

Apparently, in some text dating from the 16^th century, the Star Chamber was described as a room with a vaulted ceiling of azure, with golden stars. There are many such, throughout Europe, and even a few here in the United States, in cathedrals and churches. Have you ever been in one?

Starry, starry night.  The depiction of earth as an eye, open to the cosmos.

The star chamber is my metaphorical place of creativity.

I can enter this chamber at any time of day; frequently, this happens between 2 and 4 a.m., but also during daylight hours. I can enter this chamber at home, at sea, across borders and boundaries, and in any weather.

What is in this metaphorical chamber? How exactly do I get there? What is in the chamber? And what happens next?

I’m afraid I don’t have precise answers to these questions, but I will venture toward something necessarily imprecise.

There is an invitation made to me. From whence, I know not. This comes in the form of a twinge at the forehead, a series of words that drift into my mind and don’t drift away. There could be a tug at my sleeve, an itch on the sole of one foot or a breeze blowing across my forehead. Whatever the invitation, it will not allow me to avoid giving it due attention.  Come on, it says—in no uncertain terms.

Then, something like this happens. My conscious mind and my unconscious mind join hands. My right-brain and left-brain join hands. My heart and mind join hands. And then, in words somewhat like Dogen’s description of meditation, body and mind drop off, leaving the rest of me free to enter.

And there I am. What is in the chamber? I could not describe exactly what is in there for you or tell you what it is like, but I can say that Divine Genesis resides there, and the chamber is full, indeed.

What happens next? Mmmm. Difficult to say, for the circumstances are different each time. There is a meeting, and a spark sets the proceedings alight. Is it a conversation? Perhaps. Yes, it could well be a conversation. It could also be an exploration. A flow and mix of ideas.

And then I return to mind and body.

But the very elements that made the invitation arrive back with me, transformed into something else.

Is the result by my hand? Hmmm, I would have to say partly.  Yes—as filtered through my being—yes, it is by my hand. But, there is something more there than me. An alchemy, a music, a melding, a grace bestowed by Divine Genesis.

While I am not sure what to call this something more, it is a definite meeting.

All art, I am convinced, is derived from such meeting.

Becalmed

Hours beyond the stormy row,
wind has laid down spent arms,
to lay up storm for another day.

But for the soft bobbing of a tiny barque,
smooth as glass the waters lie
as far as horizon gleams in wearied eye.

Sun veiled by clouds belies a warmth,
one meant to beckon thirst
to this floating desert island.

No movement is called for,
and from crew none called forth,
nay, no movement at all.

Forward momentum shall be determined
not by willingness of reasoned effort,
but by serendipitous circumstance alone.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Boredom, Mother of Invention

When my kids sigh and exclaim “mom, I’m bored,” I clap my hands and respond, “Yipee! So what are you going to do about it?” And I return to whatever it was I was doing; probably something exciting, like folding laundry or cleaning out the cat box.

They want me to find something to entertain them, but I won’t do it. It is up to them. Just like it was up to me, when I was their age.

Long before I was married with children, I began seeing middle school kids with Palm Pilots and Blackberries. I wondered what kids would need those for. Finally, someone told me what it was all about. “Their parents have overscheduled them. These kids have so many activities, they have to keep track of them electronically, and sync them with the family calendar.” I was shocked. 

When we got married, I made my husband promise that we would not over-schedule ourselves and make our child carry a Palm Pilot. I'm sure he thought I was getting ahead of myself. And I was. But not by too far. 

Now, twins and ten years later, I am still shocked, even though we have moved on to Smart Phones and the iPhone and Droids that seem poised to evolve into yet more complex items. Just for the sake of example: does it make sense that some of us have as many as four different contact numbers and/or addresses? That means we have to wade through double, triple, quadruple the messages when people try to get in touch. 

I have a cellular phone, but I don’t text. I had a Palm Pilot, but gave it away years ago, and returned to having a calendar I can write in with a pencil. I have a laptop, but not the latest model or operating system or applications.

You must be thinking I am a Luddite.

Not so, not so. No, not at all. 

I think all this technology is fabulous and grand and totally gizmotic! --(I am totally looking forward to getting my very own Dick Tracy HoloTeleporTextoGraph wristwatch, as soon as they roll off the assembly line!)-- I just don’t happen to think we need to be tied to it every minute of the day and much of the night. I don’t believe that we are required to have every moment of our day filled with some sort of electronic transaction in order to feel useful and productive. In fact, I believe we are making ourselves sick with the constant influx of messages that require response. This is not productivity, people, this is overwhelm, leading to a short-circuit.

I won't even go into the shoot-em-up video games and the vapid television content, running along the lines of Beady Eye for the Con Guy, Trailer Court Cookery,America's Got Trash, Touched by a Zombie, Project Informercial and CSI Bell, California. My husband and I don't want to watch this junk, and we sure as heck don't want our kids watching it either. Whether it is television, video games or email, screen time sucks at you with constantly programmed stimulation and message intervention until your mind is not free to roam. Hours go by, empty of you and your thoughts.

Anna Quindlen wrote a lovely essay for Newsweek in 2002. She, too, had noticed all the children with afternoons full of scheduled and structured time, being chauffeured around by harried and resentful parents, and it disturbed her, as well. Reflecting on her own childhood, she said, 

How boring it was. Of course, it was the making of me, as a human being and a writer. Downtime is where we become ourselves, looking into the middle distance, kicking at the curb, lying on the grass or sitting on the stoop and staring at the tedious blue of the summer sky. I don't believe you can write poetry, or compose music, or become an actor without downtime, and plenty of it, a hiatus that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside that fuel creativity.

In a 2005 keynote speech about hyper-parenting and creativity, Alvin Rosenfeld, M.D. said, 

Boredom can stimulate kids to think, create, and hear the soft murmurings of their inner voice, the one that makes them write this unusual story or draw that unique picture, or invent a new game. It is diminishing free play’s importance and eliminating time to reflect that damage imagination because they do not treat as precious children’s natural joy in discovering.

I propose that what is good for kids is probably also at least equally good for adults. 

I have seen my husband sit at the computer, grinding away at a problem related to what he is working on, getting more and more keyed up and farther, it seems, from a solution. If I drag him away to play with the twins, he grumbles, but always finds the solution while he is away from the computer. Why? Because he let go long enough to think outside the boundaries he had set up for the solution—that is creativity. And it was not found sitting at the computer, it was found while flying kites with the kids. He was not bored by the kite flying, but it was time frivolously spent.

Author Aimee Bender spends two hours a day working at boredom, just sitting around, waiting for some odd thought to pass through her mind. 

I feel like sitting through boredom is a major piece of being a writer. There's this intense restlessness that comes up when bored. I have this interest in skewed storytelling, so it makes sense that the ideas would sometimes show up in these strange ways.

Susan Sontag observed in an essay: 

Boredom is just the reverse side of fascination: both depend on being outside rather than inside a situation, and one leads to the other.

So, here’s an idea for all of us, whether we are little kids or hyper-connected big kids:

Take some time to turn off, tune out, and twiddle those thumbs! Get out, get restless, go fly a kite--and see what happens!

///

Keane, Erin. Courier-Journal.com, 10/26/2010. Acclaimed writer Aimee Bender's creative process begins with boredom.

Quindlen, Anna. Newsweek; 5/13/2002, Vol. 139 Issue 19, p76:  Doing Nothing is Something.

Rosenfeld, Alan. Hyper-Parenting the Over-Scheduled Child, keynote address for the Association of Children’s Museums, Indianapolis, Indiana. April 30, 2005.

Sontag, Susan. On Photography: America, Seen Through Photographs, Darkly." Penguin, 1977.