Value for Monday of Week 04 in the season of Dormancy

The Material World; The Physical Body

Our spirits may run free but that is only a way of looking at life. We inhabit physical bodies, which break down, in a physical world, does not always conform to our desires.

  • Philosophy is the history of a deaf-blind person writ large. From the talks of Socrates up through Plato, Berkeley and Kant, philosophy records the efforts of human intelligence to be free of the clogging material world and fly forth into a universe of pure idea. A deaf-blind person ought to find special meaning in Plato’s Ideal World. These things which you see and hear and touch are not the reality of realities, but imperfect manifestations of the Idea, the Principle, the Spiritual; the Idea is the truth, the rest is delusion. [Helen Keller, “Optimism” (1903), Part ii.]

Though the Earth gives us life and the body is the sine qua non of every experience we will ever have, still people are tempted to view material things as constraints. The biblical story of the fall of man, from an imaginary world into the real world in which toil and suffering challenge our quest to live joyfully, is brilliantly expressed in Picasso’s La Vie.

We Humanists try not to take that view but we understand why the mind seeks to free itself from what it sees as the shackles of physical restriction. Having the ability to imagine ourselves flying, we do not always accept the reality of constraint. But if we are to approach life objectively and life honestly and responsibly, then we must acknowledge that limitation, suffering and the boundaries of the physical world are natural and often inescapable aspects of the human condition.

Real

True Narratives

But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is not always kind. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long ramble. The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped to rest under a tree by the wayside. Our last halt was under a wild cherry tree a short distance from the house. The shade was grateful, and the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was able to scramble to a seat in the branches. It was so cool up in the tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there. I promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it. Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light to me, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the earth. I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone, cut off from my friends and the firm earth. The immense, the unknown, enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted to get down from that tree. There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree. The branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled up till it reached the limb I sat on. It worked my suspense up to the highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I should fall together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had learned a new lesson--that nature "wages open war against her children, and under softest touch hides treacherous claws.” [Helen Keller, The Story of My Life (1904), Chapter V.]

Pivotal events often shape the world, as in these narratives:

Technical and Analytical Readings

Photographs

Documentary and Educational Films

Imaginary

Fictional Narratives

In Hugo’s Les Misérables, Fantine is a young woman tossed about in a society torn between monarchy and revolution. Her physical beauty is an asset, of sorts.

Fantine was one of those beings who blossom, so to speak, from the dregs of the people. Though she had emerged from the most unfathomable depths of social shadow, she bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous and the unknown. She was born at M. sur M. Of what parents? Who can say? She had never known father or mother. She was called Fantine. Why Fantine? She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth the Directory still existed. She had no family name; she had no family; no baptismal name; the Church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her, when a very small child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained. She was called little Fantine. No one knew more than that. This human creature had entered life in just this way. At the age of ten, Fantine quitted the town and went to service with some farmers in the neighborhood. At fifteen she came to Paris "to seek her fortune." Fantine was beautiful, and remained pure as long as she could. She was a lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry; but her gold was on her head, and her pearls were in her mouth.  She worked for her living; then, still for the sake of her living,--for the heart, also, has its hunger,--she loved. [Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (1862), Volume I – Fantine; Book Third – In the Year 1817, Chapter II, “A Double Quartette”.]

If there is anything terrible, if there exists a reality which surpasses dreams, it is this: to live, to see the sun; to be in full possession of virile force; to possess health and joy; to laugh valiantly; to rush towards a glory which one sees dazzling in front of one; to feel in one's breast lungs which breathe, a heart which beats, a will which reasons; to speak, think, hope, love; to have a mother, to have a wife, to have children; to have the light--and all at once, in the space of a shout, in less than a minute, to sink into an abyss; to fall, to roll, to crush, to be crushed; to see ears of wheat, flowers, leaves, branches; not to be able to catch hold of anything; to feel one's sword useless, men beneath one, horses on top of one; to struggle in vain, since one's bones have been broken by some kick in the darkness; to feel a heel which makes one's eyes start from their sockets; to bite horses' shoes in one's rage; to stifle, to yell, to writhe; to be beneath, and to say to one's self, "But just a little while ago I was a living man!" [Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (1862), Volume II – Cosette; Book First – Waterloo, Chapter XIX, The Battle-Field at Night.]

Novels and stories:

Poetry

One ship drives east and another drives west / With the self-same winds that blow; / 'Tis the set of the sails / And not the gales / That tells them the way to go.

Like the winds of the sea are the winds of fate / As we voyage along through life; / 'Tis the set of the soul / That decides its goal / And not the calm or the strife.

[Ella Wheeler Wilcox, “The Winds of Fate”]

 

In cabin'd ships at sea, / The boundless blue on every side expanding, / With whistling winds and music of the waves, the large imperious waves, / Or some lone bark buoy'd on the dense marine, / Where joyous full of faith, spreading white sails, / She cleaves the ether mid the sparkle and the foam of day, or under many a star at night, / By sailors young and old haply will I, a reminiscence of the land, be read, / In full rapport at last.   

Here are our thoughts, voyagers' thoughts, / Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be said, / The sky o'erarches here, we feel the undulating deck beneath our feet, / We feel the long pulsation, ebb and flow of endless motion, / The tones of unseen mystery, the vague and vast suggestions of the briny world, the liquid-flowing syllables, / The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy rhythm, / The boundless vista and the horizon far and dim are all here, / And this is ocean's poem.   

Then falter not O book, fulfil your destiny, / You not a reminiscence of the land alone, / You too as a lone bark cleaving the ether, purpos'd I know not whither, yet ever full of faith, / Consort to every ship that sails, sail you! / Bear forth to them folded my love, (dear mariners, for you I fold it here in every leaf;) / Speed on my book! spread your white sails my little bark athwart the imperious waves, / Chant on, sail on, bear o'er the boundless blue from me to every sea, / This song for mariners and all their ships.

[Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1891-92), Book I: Inscriptions, “In Cabin’d Ships at Sea”.]

Other poems:

Music: Composers, artists, and major works

Gustav Mahler, Das Lied von der Erde (The Song of the Earth) (1909) (approx. 100-110’) (lyrics) (recordings), is a one-of-its-kind masterpiece, perhaps a six-song cycle, perhaps a symphony. It reflects Mahler’s inner core at the time of its composition, and speaks for us all. “Death was no stranger to Mahler. In childhood it visited his home and took away brothers and sisters. In adult life he faced it down by pinning it all over his creative work in the form of funeral marches, settings of songs about more children dying, of drummer boys going to battlefields, of soldiers facing execution. Death was personal. It drank in the taverns, it stared back in the reflections of mountain streams, it glowered from the trees in the forests. Nearer the end of his own short life, however, death lost its sting and the composition of 'Das Lied Von der Erde' ('The Song of The Earth') could be looked on as the drawing of that sting.” “A chronicle of the weariness of body and soul, an embracing of death, then, finally, an exquisitely lyrical outpouring of faith in life’s renewal in a huge C-major coda, concluding with the previously-quoted passage, fading into the distance... 'Everywhere, forever... forever and ever....' Top recorded performances are by Svanhom & Ferrier (Walter) in 1948; Ferrier & Patzak (Walter) in 1952; Merriman & Haefliger (Beinum) in 1956; Ludwig & Wunderlich (Klemperer) in 1964-66; King & Fischer-Dieskau (Bernstein) in 1966 ***; Baker & Kmentt (Kubelik) in 1970; Hodgson & Mitchinson (Horenstein) in 1972; Hodgson & Mitchinson (Gibson) in 1974; Baltsa & Winkler (Karajan) in 1978; Finnilä & Schreier (Kurt Sanderling) in 1983; and Smith & Connolly (Jurowski) in 2018.

Other works:

Albums:

Music: songs and other short pieces

 

Visual Arts

Film and Stage

latest from

The Work on the Meditations