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I believe it is an old German proverb: We grow too soon old, and too late smart. There is, no doubt, some wisdom there. We often shudder at the memory of the follies and arrogance of our youth. And yet it strikes me that there should be no hard and fast age requirement for enlightenment. Consider that the space of a life is infinitely varied, from a few feeble moments to those who find their way into triple digits. Can we reasonably assert that we have to live x number of years before we can sense and begin to tune our unique harmonic relationship to the universe? Are wisdom and enlightenment the sole prerogative of age? And before you answer in the affirmative, remember that it wasn't all that long ago when the "elders of the tribe" were those who had seen 30 or 40 seasons
It seems far more reasonable to assert that our lives are riddled with wormholes of wisdom. The wormholes of theoretical physics improbably provide direct connections between widely separated points in spacetime. Through a wormhole, thousands of lightyears of distance vanish into the space of a single step. Wormholes bend spacetime as we fold a map and, by doing so, place New York and Tokyo slap up against each other. Wormholes of wisdom are moments of essential harmony, moments of spontaneous unity with our fully developed chord that pop into our lives regardless of our age or awareness. They allow our chord to unfold before us in all its perfection. The trick is recognizing it for what it is.
That recognition is, I believe, clearer in hindsight. The longer we live the more often we stumble upon our own particular wormholes of wisdom. Hopefully, we get better at recognizing them. As I make my way through my seventh decade, the second of my conscious pursuit of my chord, I meet instances of harmony at every turn. This morning's sunlight, yesterday's storm, the laughter of friends and family, a Mozart harpsichord piece plinking away in the background - I'm awash in harmony. All one needs is focus, attention and appreciation. However, prior to my intentional search for harmony, my chord often had to attract my attention with a smart smack about the head and shoulders: "Hey you! Deaf guy! Pay attention! This is your harmony speaking! Get with the program."
The God Chord opens with a series of vignettes that I attribute to a variety of people. In reality they are all my own experiences. They were all moments that I now recognize as wormholes of wisdom - moments when my chord forced its way into my unprepared consciousness. Recently I have made a conscious effort to push back before writing The God Chord to recall more of those moments, moments of harmonic purity that slipped by unnoticed. A few have surfaced:
A night, perhaps a composite of several, when I count my life in single digits. I sit out on our screened-in porch. I am reading a novel about a dog, perhaps Lad, A Dog, by Albert Payson Terhune. Through the open door I hear my mother noodling about at the piano in the living room. Rain patters on the roof. The rare car eases by on wet and whispering tires. A root beer float sweats companionably by my elbow.
Another night, again perhaps a composite. I lie on the floor of my daughter's room, waiting for her breathing to fade into sleep. The muted light from the hallway illuminates a mobile - above the crib? Maybe at the center of the ceiling? The indistinct objects that anchor the cross-pieces circle lazily in a breeze from somewhere. No other job intrudes upon this treasured task - easing my child into slumber.
I now weave the reconstruction of these harmonic moments into my evening meditations. I find they ease the transition from the sharper moments of the day into Alternia's quieter shadows. Give it a try, reach back to those moments when unacknowledged harmony came calling. It can be quite lovely.
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