Begining the universe with a word

William James once asked Helen Keller to describe what life was like prior to learning her first word, her response was that there was nothing, no description, nothing to re member, a gray miasma; it was when t that first word, water, became real that ideas became real,that Helen Keller became a human being. Her universe was created.

It is reported that as a species we have been around for about 180,000 years, a number that becomes more accurate as scientists examine new evidence using new techniques; but examples of what we are as human beings goes only to cave paintings, the oldest writings are but a few thousand, does no one want to talk about that gap? What about the first 150,000 or so years? The animal that is us existed, ate, fornicated, shat and begat for a long, long time, but apparently without language.

From the mists of our past a truth came through far enough to be put down in what was to become part of the bible, something to the effect that-the word was the beginning. It was not until the first of our ancestors put her hand on something and uttered ‘rock’ that rock was created, and then she gave her partner that look, look was all she had to give him as she had no other word, gave him that look that says ‘pay attention to me the one with the vagina, this is important what I have just done, she repeated the sound until he understood, until he slapped an object and made the sound ‘rock’, I can only imagine the joy them both as they created a world ‘rock’, and then he slapped another object, what we now call ‘tree’, he repeated ‘rock’, she gave him that look again, he eventually came to see that the world was ‘rock’ and not-’rock’. In the beginning was the word.

A baby sees that the object incessantly put in front of its face, and the sound ‘ball’, are the same thing, object is ball, ball is object, there is now a world and it is ‘ball’. There isn’t one of us who hasn’t enjoyed watching an infant with the first word, the world is ‘ball’, the word is repeated ad nauseum; remember the look on the infant’s face, pure joy, the first joy of a human being. That child has become a being with a universe, has the joy of creation.

Periodically the New York Times reports or copies the bleatings of physical scientists and the bible-beaters as they throw their paper weapons at one another in exasperation, frustration arising from the intuitive knowledge that neither one has anything worth while to say.

Newton, and then Einstein, stated clearly, without evasion that this is what we have, there can’t be more and there can’t be less; Einstein made it even more inclusive by adding energy to matter, making the point even stronger. This is what there is, there can’t be more and there can’t be less.

So what the hell is a physical scientist doing talking about creating the world, that ain’t his game, he has all that there is, the scientists job is to explain it.

So what the hell is the bible-beater doing talking about the physical world, that ain’t her game, she has all that she needs, if she would just examine herself within.

It is that that arises from being, from knowing, from learning that the spiritual world is about; examine what happens the first time you fall in love, that surprising event that defines fifth grade, that took over my life bringing great adventure and sorrow, examine what that is about, that is the world of creation and the spirit, perhaps even the Spirit.

It is 0° and breezy

I recently remembered that I know how to make ° £ € ¿ on this keyboard, the upside down question mark is one that I’d like to find occasion to use, but this may be the only occasion.

Our focus was on the possibility that it would get to 50°, which it did, and to ignore the next paragraph of the prediction; it decreased 50° from late afternoon to about midnight yesterday, and dropped about an inch of fresh snow. So what’s the big deal, it is the last week in January in Chicago? (I was looking for an appropriate character to end that sentence, maybe I should have used ð) I hadn’t put away my heavy Irish sweater, the big leather coat sits where it did, there is nothing of concern other than I liked the warmer weather, didn’t want winter to return. But it is here.

Yesterday I wrote a first explanation of something that has been bugging me for longer than I knew, has been at the back of my mind from the start; that first attempt is awful, I want to erase it, never bring up the subject again. And I didn’t want winter to return.

I won’t erase the question I wrote, I would not write it that way again, have felt my error for the day since I did, it was as if I had constipation, when getting anything at all out is a start. I have an idea now how to go on with my exploration, and where to do it: WordPress has a Pages area that I have used before for things that are not daily, I have some things over there, no one ever reads that stuff, I’ll be safe experimenting over there.

When I wrote that Google had only 3 hits from my query I knew I was in empty territory; all along I have been saying that inner exploration gives access to a complete library, it is true. Is there a better thing for a person to do than explore a really difficult problem, not give in to the trite that is offered? This continues to be a difficult notion to get across, people drift to magic, where pre-destination, outside spirits, the ability to see the future dwell, but that wishful thinking never brings up anything nutritious, it is cud chewing at best.

So that is what I will do about that, the special thing that makes us us is going to be examined over there.

There is sun in a clear blue sky, chimney steam is pushed to the east in the breeze that is predicted to gust to 30 mph; the sparrows are not as numerous as before, they come and go in waves, but they always come back for food. I haven’t seen my big bird in about a week, someone suggested that it might be a buzzard, they are common in the suburbs; I do remember that I saw the wingtip feathers spread in finger formation when it flew away, I think that buzzards are one of the birds who show spread finger wingtips at low speed. I’ll have to focus on the neck if it returns; but it has always been backlit, seen in contrast, never a clear, lighted sight.

I went to see Bert in the home yesterday, was surprised to see that it had been 2 weeks since my last visit, sometimes this is a tough thing to do. When I started visiting him in the autumn he was noisy, had idée fixe that was frustrating to be around; recently he is calm, has snippets of conversation that require little or no memory, his speech is clear and vocabulary seems alright. I gently probe the floor nurse about his condition, am given ‘oh, he’s doing fine, doing fine’ in the same studied way; perhaps there has been a problem with the confidentiality thing, I don’t push it beyond the gentle inquiry.

I really don’t care what his medical condition is: I am just there for that time, Bert is only in this time, what he accomplished or didn’t is irrelevant now, what is coming next week or month is irrelevant now, what is relevant is the big smile I get when I say ‘how are you doing old friend?’ That is all that any one human can do for another human being ‘how are you doing old friend?’

Bert can’t remember my first name, has never been told my last name, can’t remember if I had ever visited him, he does recall my face from somewhere; I have printed out the Auden poem The More Loving One and keep it pinned to the wall above my desk; there is a sentence that alway resonates:

If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.

I can’t say that my friendship with Bert is stronger than his for me, it really doesn’t matter which is which now.

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The feeder has about 2 inches of seed in it, about enough for today; I want that bottom seed to be eaten, don’t want it to get wet and moldy.

Winter storm in Chicago

This morning the temperature is a few degrees above freezing, the rain comes down instead of snow or sleet, the sidewalks have slush but not too much ice on them; not such a bad day for a long walk.  The bird feeder must be frozen or clogged again this morning, I can hear birds nearby, but none at the feeder.

The freezing rain and the anticipation of that iciness slows activities, makes one appreciate being inside and warm, more staring out the window than is usual.

I did make a trip out to the nursing home yesterday, it had been a week since I last saw Bert, at that time he was caught in a cycle of incoherency, it was impossible to reach him; yesterday was different, he was talking with another patient when I arrived, he recognized my face, no memory of my name, said that he remembered me from the past, and that this was the first time I had visited him in the home.  He was in a friendly mood. My visit was cut short when someone came to take him down to the dentist, his dentures need to be relined to fit his shrunken mouth.

I have no academic knowledge of dementia, what I know is from visits and the occasional comments of health care workers; with Bert there are cycles of clarity with no short term memory and then periods where he is fixed on an idea, locked in a circular effort of attention, when reaching him is impossible.  Instead of being alternatively frustrated or thankful when visiting I think that it is better to accept how he is, be friendly, listen to make sure that he isn’t trying to communicate, and know that I can return another time.

There are dozens of birds sitting in the yard, sitting and waiting like a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds.

The lesson I get from experiencing Bert’s cycles is the reminder that everything is changing:

Women I loved fervently are now strangers to me.

My sailboat Seablade is now a series of wonderful memories.

A daughter who was always given unrestricted love now rejects me.

Flag-waving atheism was precursor to an epiphany.

Fine tools kept sharp now sit for years in boxes.

I haven’t fucked a woman in over a decade, haven’t met one that I wanted.

And this day is as good a day as I have ever experienced, and I had thought that of other days.

I have another fellow to visit, Ben, he is not a hospice patient, just a guy with a bad leg and dementia, getting old in a human warehouse.  That fact is something I have to learn to accept every time that I visit him, warehousing is a tough one to accept, a sad fact.

I continue to work on my piece about creation, was going to try and put it on here today, but a new quirk came to me, a question: Were we human before we had language?  The fundamentalists will freak out at that one, that is if they were ever to read something other than what was commanded of them.

It is time to go outside to clear the bird feeder.

 

Writing about the creation

For the last few days I have been working on an article about “creation”, I’ll publish it here soon, I hope.

It goes slower than I had thought because there is tension within me: between wanting to show how I have sorted out the idea of creation and the presumption that this is too large and important a subject for a layman to tackle. This isn’t stopping me, but it is making me go through a number of iterations to get it right. And it is a wonderful thing to have going on in the back of ones mind as the other stuff of the day comes along.

There was a program on Charlie Rose the other night about the aging mind, or that was part of the program; if a person would stretch to look at the big ideas that are completely personal the mind would be challenged in a healthy way. No one knows more about the nature of God than I do, or you do, or anyone, it is intrinsically personal. No one knows more about the creation of the universe than I do, or you do, one’s universe is intrinsically personal. Good and bad fall under the same umbrella. It is fun to wake up wondering just how an idea can be put into words that someone else might find interesting.

There is also the benefit that I can write about writing.

I am watching a man die

Bert is in a wheelchair, sitting on a pad that sends an alarm if he tries to stand, and occasionally he makes that effort, there is also an alarm that goes off when he comes close to an elevator door. He is set into that chair as a doll is set on a shelf, tucked back as far as possible to prevent him falling off the shelf, he tilts against the right arm of the chair, the effort of sitting upright is to much for his body, the wherewithal to sit straight and dignified has gone.disappeared, that blow to his dignity is sad.

But it is that his mind is leaving the stage that one most notices, that that makes a man human is going away, Bert knows it, he tells me it and I nod agreement. Again I see the frustration as what is left of a mind tries to formulate a sentence, tries to find a word that once was common to it, and now can’t be found; the mind that is left races about in a smaller and smaller area memories and vocabulary now forbidden in their disappearance, frustration gives way to anger, and who would blame him, who would deny him the anger over losing his humanity. The mind plays on a smaller and smaller field, looking to do what a mind does as the resources diminish daily.

I have watched an infant discover his first word, ‘ball’ is the entire universe, he repeats ‘ball’ and laughs each time, it is the laughter of creation, the child is creating a life, a universe, and right now the universe consists of ‘ball’ and ‘not ball’. Soon ‘chair’ will share that universe with ‘ball’ and ‘not ball’, there is laughter and the purest of joy with each step of creation.

It was written a long, long time ago that “In the beginning was the word”, and that is what can be seen in a child’s eyes; the mundane among us argue that ‘creation’ has to do with making stuff from non-stuff, and other stupidities; they can witness creation by sitting with a child as each new word makes his universe explode, with joy and laughter.

From what I know it seems that it took humans about 150,000 years to do words, to make the change from dumb animal to that that creates, a process anyone can witness while spending time with an infant.

Bert’s world, his universe, is collapsing, his creation is in reverse, and he knows it, every person I have known who is demented knows it, and the anger at its disappearance is entirely appropriate, I will be angry too.

Right now I am not angry, I was, but now I am sad, there will be other emotions, but right now I am sad to watch death overtake this mind, this universe;

just as I laughed with the baby as it experienced creation, I have a few tears as this universe diminishes.

Bert’s teeth don’t fit any more, there wouldn’t be much justification in having them redone to fit securely; Bert is sick, he is very sick and won’t be here much longer. As on every visit, his mind summons itself enough to look straight at me, as honest and deep a look as I have ever experienced, as he says ‘thank you’, ‘thank you for coming to see me’, and then I walk away.

It takes a lot from me when I sit and watch this new friend die, I have asked myself if there is anything I can do, the answer is that all I can do is sit beside him, touch his hand, and understand when he tells me that his mind is going, this takes a lot from me, I go home fatigued, will have strange dreams, will find myself in the middle of the night typing this story. I may now be the best friend he has in this world, yet he can’t remember my name, and I am not allowed to display my last name.

The people whose jobs are to take care of the dying grow a callous that is obvious, they are kind and considerate, there is no cruelty, but there is an absence of connection, they have a job to do, and to do it again, and again, and to rejuvenate themselves enough in order to do it again tomorrow. I see this on nurses and aides, on administrators and pastors; at first this callousness made me angry, until I realized that if they were to explore dying with each one of their patients it would destroy them. It is for a volunteer, one without an agenda, to occasionally sit and explore dying with the Berts and Marys. If I ever see that I am growing such a callous I will stop doing what I do.