Finding Your Fulcrum

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I usually hate it when the right words are already taken, but this time it may have been helpful.  It started when I stopped listening to music while doing my evening Reike.  You see, for the last 30 years or so I have done the same ritual every night before I go to sleep. It is a truncated Reike session that helps me relax and ease into sleep.  Until a week or so ago I would perform the ritual - which involves placing my hands on my head and slowing my breath - while listening to music.  A form of meditation, if you will.

Interestingly, I had noticed that there were times when the music seemed to run counter to relaxation.  You see, you are supposed to shift your hand position every three minutes, and it seemed that knowing where I was in the music would make me impatient to get relaxed - and yes, I realize how oxymoronic that is.  Anyhow, we have one of those “nature sound” generator things by the bed.  It will do rain, surf, wind, summer night, etc., etc.  We often run it at night and so I started just doing my Reike/relaxation/meditation to “summer night.”  It seemed to work quite well, which, naturally, got me thinking.

Thunderstorms, real ones with rain and wind and all that are incredibly somniferous events for me.  Love that word, "somniferous," sleep-inducing; the word itself is somniferous, I’m yawning here typing it.  But again, I digress.  Thunderstorms put me to sleep.  But then I thought about it a bit more.  They don’t actually put me to sleep – they relax me so completely that sleep often follows, but not always.  Same with crickets at night, some music, and, when I was young, the murmur of my parents voices drifting in my window screen as they talked out on the porch.  Some sounds seem to transport me to specific and utterly tranquil places.  The whole storm thing whisks me away to a lake I do not recognize from my “real” life, but is as familiar to me as any place I have ever been:

It is a Northern lake, similar to, but not specifically from, places I have visited in Northern Michigan and Wisconsin.  There is a boathouse rocking between two flanking docks, fragile yet unquestionable in its security from the wind and rain.  I am in a hammock, gently rocked, but not chilled, by the cool breeze. I know it is not real because there are no mosquitoes.  Still, I am quite content to rest wrapped in serene “somniferousness.”

Certain smells – lilac for example, no, not lavender, lilac – does the same thing.  Comfort foods are comfort foods because they, too, bring comfort and that feeling of somniferous well-being.

There is obviously a chord theory/universal resonance issue going on here.  After all, if it is a theory of everything, it has to be a theory of everything.  So, Chordman, how do you explain these seemingly spontaneous onsets of somniferous well-being?  I’m glad you asked.

This is, however, where I began to run into the problem of the right words having already been hijacked.  The thought that originally came to me was that this phenomenon was a wormhole notion.  Wormholes are tunnels through spacetime that allow for nigh unto instantaneous movement across light years of distance.  Spontaneous onsets of somniferous well-being could be similar shortcuts to harmony.  One cuts through lengthy sessions of meditation, reflection, etc., and moves directly to a centered sense of well-being.  Hence, these paths transcend the normal spiritual pathways to enlightenment – they are transcendent.  So I originally thought to call them “transcendors.”  Unfortunately I run into a lot of semantic issues if I follow that path because this is precisely where most of the words have been claimed by other “theories of everything.”  Transcendent, transcendental, transformative, -- all are the “property” of some other worldview.  So even if I could lay claim to transcendors, it would probably seed more confusion than clarity.

I was also having problems with the word “wormhole,” I just don’t like it.  I know, I know – beyond trivial.  But universal harmony asserts that the “thing” is a complete totality – the painting is the wood, the canvas, the paint and the varnish, in addition to the thoughts, emotions and the brushstrokes of the artist.  The map is a real component of the territory, the word is an important aspect of the thing.  So the word “wormhole” had to fit the phenomenon being expressed, and it didn’t.  “Holy Dune, Batman!  Would you look at the size of that wormhole!”  I just couldn’t go there.  So potential confusion in the transcendent camp and a trivial sense of discord with the word wormhole sent me poking around for better discourse to explain the phenomenon in question.  Here’s what I came up with.

A wormhole asserts a movement from one point in space-time to another.  The different locales in the universe, particularly when observed from points removed from the wormhole, lie at great distance from one another.  However, universal harmony asserts that the universe is a single harmonic whole, so it follows that discord is resolved by shifting perspective, not location.  Harmony, if you will, is in the mind of the beholder and is not dependent upon the location of the observer in the cosmos.  Hence, moments of somniferous well-being are functions of perspective, not location.  I need not scour the ends of the earth to find the lake of harmony whose shores welcome me each night, it is always there in my head.

So the various triggers of somniferous well-being do not, wormhole-like, take me anywhere. Rather, they alter my perception of the space I currently occupy. They enable and affirm my recognition of the harmonic universe that surrounds me.  They provide balance.  And, ah ha, that calls forth another concept.  When we think about Archimedes and his lever to move the earth, we do tend to get overwhelmed by the lever.  That is understandable, the scale of the thing would be awesome.  We think less about the fulcrum.  Yet, obviously, without the fulcrum, a lever – no matter how long - is just a board.  It is the fulcrum that enables balance.  Shades of playgrounds past; the yelling softens as light mellows through recess dust. Then, carefully, there is neither teeter nor totter, set the table; there is balance, there is harmony.

So, I have come to this – the thunderstorm, the lilacs, the crickets, some music, and maybe grilled cheese sandwiches – these are my existential fulcra.  They balance my life, they shift my perspective in ways that allow me to simply “be” there in the midst of harmony; calm, balanced and relaxed.  How did Simon and Garfunkel put it?  “All dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.”  Furthermore, to the extent that constructed representations of those fulcra are accurate; the sounds in the “sleep machine” or lilac candles or infusers, they too can become fulcra, balancing and relaxing, affirming harmony.
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Mural Musing #3

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Buckets and Brooms

It wasn’t what I was going for, but it wasn’t bad.  Paul looked at the wall for a bit, more quizzical than critical.  “That’s fine,” he said.  “That will work.”

An old joke is perhaps the best explanation of what I think he really meant:


Johnny’s dad was working out in the garage when his young son came in and loitered by the workbench long enough to catch his father’s attention.
 
“Something on your mind son?”
 
“Sorta.”
 
“Well, come on. You know we can talk about anything.”
 
“OK, Dad. Where did I come from?”
 
Dad took a deep breath. He had been expecting this question. Kids grew up so fast these days. But, he had even done some reading: Father to Son, Solid Parenting, and the article Tell it Like it Is in "GQ". “Well son, when a man and woman fall in love it is just natural that they often want to have children and so . . . . .” And after about 15 minutes he finished off with “. . . and 9 months later the baby comes out of the birth canal into the world. And that is where you came from.”
 
His son is staring at him, wide-eyed. “Wow! That is so much cooler than Tommy’s answer!”
 
“What was Tommy’s answer?” asked the puzzled dad.  

“Tommy said he came from New Jersey.”

There is, I came to learn over the next couple of days, such a thing as too much information in transferring small square information to big squares.  What really served Paul best were the reference points of trees, trunks and branches.  “I’m just gonna take a broom and a bucket and splash some paint up there. I just need to know what spots to miss,” he told me.

That is in line with the whole kumquat and avocado concept.  But the truth was he really did just need those major reference points. The details of leaves and underbrush, sky and cloud, were distractions at this point.  As one of my daughters’ favorite childhood books puts it, simple pictures are best.  That was actually good news because creating those detailed “paint-by-numbers” squares was incredibly time consuming.  I could understand why it took Michelangelo four years to do the Sistine Chapel.  Why, the amount of time he must have spent tearing masking tape alone must have been staggering. So I pulled back to simple pictures like these:

I mentioned in the last post that Paul and I bring different skill sets to the project.  To be quite truthful I could teach any of you to do what I have done – it is sheet metal work after all; exacting craftsmanship, but quite "learnable."  Paul’s skill set is also teachable – but only to a point.  Go to any craft fair or public “art show” and “painters” will present their wares, and yes, you can tell that that is a picture of a puppy with a pear – sort of.  Paul’s skill set is far beyond “skill”  -- “a gift,” would be a better descriptor.  That is not to say that it is not the result of years of hard work.  But, as I often have to point out to my students, I cannot evaluate you on the basis of how hard you worked.  That might have been germane in back in K through 12, but here, at the university, I can only evaluate you on the basis of what you produce with your effort.  No, it doesn’t seem fair that some folks seem to be able to produce great work with little effort, while others struggle mightily to achieve mediocrity.  It is not fair, but it is the way of life.  The secret is to discover those places in your own life where ability and desire intersect.

Such an intersection is unfolding in our foyer.  I have spent a goodly amount of time in Paul’s studio and workshop.  I have taken my classes there on occasion to listen to him talk about making pots, painting and building guitars.  But the amount of time I have actually watched him work is surprisingly limited.  It is a special experience.  As he approached today's tasks, I was first taken by his lack of movement.  He looked at my drawings on the wall for awhile.  He sipped the coffee, that was my job to prepare.  Then he got out his paints and brushes. And, despite my humming several bars of The Sorcerer's Apprentice,  neither brooms nor buckets made an appearance.  Instead, Paul took his original reference painting and propped it up beside the wall.  And then he stared at the wall.  Next he stared at the drawing.  One and then the other – like this:

Eventually he took off his hat and picked up the brush.  What has followed over the next few days was, in my mind, quite magical.  And we will go there in the next post.
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Pen to Paper

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By most measures, I should be doing other things.  I have lectures to prepare, papers to grade.  I must pack for a trip only hours in the future.  So, naturally, I have taken my large leather-bound journal to the table, dimmed the lights, lit the candles and taken pen in hand.  An opera I do not quite recognize drifts softly from the next room, rain patters around outside in the darkness.

It was a strange vision that sent me here.  My wife has preceded me to Chicago, so I bumble about in an easy return to my unscheduled single days.  Yet, I had neglected my medication and so found myself in the kitchen, in pain, loading the dishwasher.  I retreated upstairs, put on the classical music channel, and lay down on the bed waiting for the pill to kick in.  It was simple to drift off into what I now think of as hyperconsciousness, a state poised between waking and sleep that has been my favorite haunt since childhood.

I am in a sleigh, or so it seems.  There are no creatures hitched before, but I glide through a snowy moonlit wood.  It is tranquil, quite soothing.  Apparently I steer by will as a subtle inclination guides the craft across a meadow, then back into more sheltered ways.  The barriers between experience and perception melt and I am where I am.  A comfortable completeness.

Gradually I become aware of the music and the drumming of the rain on the roof.  What we call consciousness intrudes, nudging me toward responsible activity.  I mount my usual protests that this voyage is far more important.  Coming downstairs to write seems a reasonable compromise.

I do not think it is entirely generational that I find these creamy sheets of handmade paper far more enticing than the cursor blinking at the first line of a newly opened document. Certainly there is the physical pleasure of forming the letters upon the page – the pen tracing an individuality totally beyond the ability of any “family of fonts.”  But it is more than that.  There is a feeling of permanence.  I, more than many, am aware of the incongruity of that assertion.  This book is fragile.  Fire or flood could undo it utterly.  It could be lost, discarded, rendered asunder in a dozen different ways.

Furthermore, I know that its digital incarnation will slip up into the cloud of the worldwide computer where web-bots and widgets, spiders and data miners will stuff its 1s and 0s into servers with no apparent masters; confined in seeming perpetuity.  Yet, the Internet conveys an accidental immortality – existence without intention.  Perhaps that is why I see the cursor’s welcome as more of a wink than a blink.  It knows.

But an honest pen to a new sheet of paper?  The possibilities overreach the universe.
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Distillations Part 6

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The Soul

The entity that most religions call the soul is recognized, in universal resonance, to be a physical reality; a cluster of those unimaginably tiny strings that uniquely encodes our deepest beliefs, feelings and insights. It is a minute morsel of matter whose size and resonance allows it, on the occasion of the demise of its current body, to migrate among the multiple dimensions demanded by the math of string theory, thereby actualizing immortality.

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The Early Multiverse

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RL Schrag 2009

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Distillations Part 5

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The Self

The self is the symphony we compose with the choices of our life.  Inclined by biology, we take from our DNA the realization that we are utterly unique.  Each breath we draw, each hope we cherish, our fears, the thoughts we think, all trigger cascades of discernible physical reactions that strum the very strings of our self, creating and recreating us anew each moment.

Though buffeted by both choice and chance, we are the composers of our life’s symphony.  It is a role we are powerless to relinquish.
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Self Portrait

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RL Schrag 2003

Distillations Part 4

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Oppose Harm

Harm is anything that compromises harmony and beauty. Sometimes active opposition, though seemingly discordant, is the necessary path to harmony. But, whenever possible, opposition should be graceful, gentle, even beautiful.

Remember, opposition forced into the public sphere usually indicates a failure to blunt harm in a more private and graceful manner.

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The Musician

RL Schrag 2001

Distillations Part 2

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Foster Harmony

This guides all our behavior. It shapes what we do and what we should refrain from doing: We seek harmony.

Implicit in the exhortation to foster harmony is the realization that we cannot choose for others. The only chord you can tune is your own.

Harmony rarely frowns. She is not selfish, arrogant or disdainful. Harmony could be rather tedious were she not so willing to laugh at herself.

Distillations Part 1

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 Those of you who have been around for the past eight years know that The Wall grew out of notes that I would actually stick on "the wall" above my desk at home.  Those notes grew into the book The God Chord that some of you have had the persistence to read.  I thank you for that effort.


My wife Christine, coming from the marketing side of life, has often opined that if I really wanted peole to read the work, I should consider the reader staring at those 240 plus pages that meander through physics, philosophy, art, occasional comedy and unintended tragedy.  Jeez.  Everybody is an editor.  I have however taken her advice and distilled 246 pages down to 719 words.


I am still quite fond of the 246 pages, but I am going to share the 719 words here on this blog.  Not all at once, of course, but chapter by chapter:


Here is the first: