Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wordlessness—Part 2
Another way we can experience wordlessness is to have a moving experience happen to us. If we come face to face with a snake, for example, for a split-second we are utterly beyond words. Even for less dramatic situations—seeing a beautiful bird, having the sun suddenly burst through clouds, hearing a gorgeous piece of music—we may find ourselves completely absorbed and in a wordless state. These events usually are beyond our control. They are visited upon us. Some of them are moments of grace, when we are touched by a power greater than ourselves.
But we can also cultivate wordless states. Meditation or moments of intense contemplation are times when we open ourselves to the present moment and become fully engaged with life as it unfolds—right now. This is the essence of the practice and discipline of meditation: to become so absorbed into the moment that we have no words to mediate or distort the experience. We’re not doing, we’re being. When we are able to get to this place, we are removing a major barrier between our outer self (persona) and our deeper self. Our persona is something we’ve acquired, that is mostly a phony structure of words and names. It’s a masquerade that we engage in. If we can place ourselves in a wordless state, however, we can burrow behind the mask to the real person hidden there.
We’d obviously be lost without words. They’ve become essential to our social interactions and how we interpret the world. They’re a part of us. They’re the essence of what it is to be human. But how we react and think is often controlled by words—words that are in our heads and words that other people tell us.
So words can also be pests. As Charlie Brooker (an English satirical commentator) put it: “Words are like cockroaches—only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor.”
But we can also cultivate wordless states. Meditation or moments of intense contemplation are times when we open ourselves to the present moment and become fully engaged with life as it unfolds—right now. This is the essence of the practice and discipline of meditation: to become so absorbed into the moment that we have no words to mediate or distort the experience. We’re not doing, we’re being. When we are able to get to this place, we are removing a major barrier between our outer self (persona) and our deeper self. Our persona is something we’ve acquired, that is mostly a phony structure of words and names. It’s a masquerade that we engage in. If we can place ourselves in a wordless state, however, we can burrow behind the mask to the real person hidden there.
We’d obviously be lost without words. They’ve become essential to our social interactions and how we interpret the world. They’re a part of us. They’re the essence of what it is to be human. But how we react and think is often controlled by words—words that are in our heads and words that other people tell us.
So words can also be pests. As Charlie Brooker (an English satirical commentator) put it: “Words are like cockroaches—only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor.”
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Wordlessness—Part 1
Words are at the core of what it means to be human. They are, by definition, speech sounds that we can make with our voice mechanism in almost endless variations. No other creature has the ability to create so many different sounds and thus build a highly complex way of communicating amongst themselves. With the invention of writing, we further extended our ability to communicate by generating visual symbols of words with which we can create a written record. Printed words are a powerful way that we learn from each other—a unique way that we pass on knowledge.
To be human is to use words. Language is the key to our intelligence. Words are wonderful. And yet, they can also cause problems. When two people use the same word, but have different mental images for it, confusion and even conflict can occur. We sometimes employ words, believing that the other person understands our usage, when in fact they may see things very differently. We might suppose that we are effectively communicating when, in fact, we may perhaps be fueling dissension. We tend to create conventions and rules for words we use and then insist, in an insular manner, that others conform to our concepts and notions.
The mere use of some words invites trouble, depending on the context and who we are talking to. These are called trigger words or hot-button words—such as terrorist, welfare, liberal, abortion, taxes, the Koran, illegal immigrants, and a few more that I don’t wish to write.
Another way we can run into problems with words is when we come to live too much in our heads. Words themselves have no material existence—they’re just abstract symbols in our minds. If we frequently remind ourselves that they are just symbols, we’re OK, but we can go too far and become out of touch with reality. If, for example, we create words for things that do not exist and then try to make them real in our mental realm, we delude ourselves. It can lead us to making up spurious stories about imagined things.
So words are wonderful tools, but they also can have a shadow side. They can lead us into discord—with others as well as with ourselves. So it can be useful sometimes to intentionally go beyond words, to experience what it means to enter wordless realms. This kind of experience can break us out of a narrow way of thinking. It can even bring us into better touch with reality—by directly engaging in life (without the mediation of words), much as an animal does.
Living without words is impossible for us, for anything but a brief moment, but it can be enlightening to delay putting words to an experience—if only for a second. The typical process that happens to us is that we have a sensation—we hear something or see something, for example—and then we immediately name it. The split second we name it, we’re also likely to categorize and judge it. We deem it good or bad, right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. We’ve instantly decided whether we want more of it or to ban it from our presence.
A similar precipitous response after we name something is immediately to decide that we know enough about it to group it with similar things that we’ve seen or labeled in the past. “Oh, that’s the same dumb bird I heard last week.” Or: “When she acts like that, she’s probably lying to me.” We thus close ourselves off to learning anything new about that bird or that woman. We’ve locked them into a rigid interpretation—not only limiting our understanding or our ability to learn more about them, but not even allowing for the fact that our perceptions may be erroneous.
It can be very helpful to rein ourselves in a little, to try to hold ourselves back from naming and labeling. Can we stay wordless for just a moment? Can we just be with the experience, without thinking or categorizing? It can open us up to a deeper understanding of life, if we momentarily pause and see what more we can learn, rather than hastily assigning the experience to some closed file cabinet in our mind; a dead-end slot where it atrophies.
As an antidote to being overly wordy, some people attempt to escape the world of words (that abstract universe in their minds) by engaging in intensive, attention-grabbing activities. A high-speed chase, or a bungee jump, or watching a horror movie can bring us visceral experiences that are beyond words, as long as our attention remains captured. It can be fun, as well as a welcome diversion from our humdrum mental images; they can be thrilling experiences, as they wrench our minds from that artificially-manufactured interior world. But the danger in going that route is that we can come to rely on external—and often imitation—means of touching reality. It can be an escape from the conceptual world of words by turning to sensational methods.
More wordless ways next time…
To be human is to use words. Language is the key to our intelligence. Words are wonderful. And yet, they can also cause problems. When two people use the same word, but have different mental images for it, confusion and even conflict can occur. We sometimes employ words, believing that the other person understands our usage, when in fact they may see things very differently. We might suppose that we are effectively communicating when, in fact, we may perhaps be fueling dissension. We tend to create conventions and rules for words we use and then insist, in an insular manner, that others conform to our concepts and notions.
The mere use of some words invites trouble, depending on the context and who we are talking to. These are called trigger words or hot-button words—such as terrorist, welfare, liberal, abortion, taxes, the Koran, illegal immigrants, and a few more that I don’t wish to write.
Another way we can run into problems with words is when we come to live too much in our heads. Words themselves have no material existence—they’re just abstract symbols in our minds. If we frequently remind ourselves that they are just symbols, we’re OK, but we can go too far and become out of touch with reality. If, for example, we create words for things that do not exist and then try to make them real in our mental realm, we delude ourselves. It can lead us to making up spurious stories about imagined things.
So words are wonderful tools, but they also can have a shadow side. They can lead us into discord—with others as well as with ourselves. So it can be useful sometimes to intentionally go beyond words, to experience what it means to enter wordless realms. This kind of experience can break us out of a narrow way of thinking. It can even bring us into better touch with reality—by directly engaging in life (without the mediation of words), much as an animal does.
Living without words is impossible for us, for anything but a brief moment, but it can be enlightening to delay putting words to an experience—if only for a second. The typical process that happens to us is that we have a sensation—we hear something or see something, for example—and then we immediately name it. The split second we name it, we’re also likely to categorize and judge it. We deem it good or bad, right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. We’ve instantly decided whether we want more of it or to ban it from our presence.
A similar precipitous response after we name something is immediately to decide that we know enough about it to group it with similar things that we’ve seen or labeled in the past. “Oh, that’s the same dumb bird I heard last week.” Or: “When she acts like that, she’s probably lying to me.” We thus close ourselves off to learning anything new about that bird or that woman. We’ve locked them into a rigid interpretation—not only limiting our understanding or our ability to learn more about them, but not even allowing for the fact that our perceptions may be erroneous.
It can be very helpful to rein ourselves in a little, to try to hold ourselves back from naming and labeling. Can we stay wordless for just a moment? Can we just be with the experience, without thinking or categorizing? It can open us up to a deeper understanding of life, if we momentarily pause and see what more we can learn, rather than hastily assigning the experience to some closed file cabinet in our mind; a dead-end slot where it atrophies.
As an antidote to being overly wordy, some people attempt to escape the world of words (that abstract universe in their minds) by engaging in intensive, attention-grabbing activities. A high-speed chase, or a bungee jump, or watching a horror movie can bring us visceral experiences that are beyond words, as long as our attention remains captured. It can be fun, as well as a welcome diversion from our humdrum mental images; they can be thrilling experiences, as they wrench our minds from that artificially-manufactured interior world. But the danger in going that route is that we can come to rely on external—and often imitation—means of touching reality. It can be an escape from the conceptual world of words by turning to sensational methods.
More wordless ways next time…
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Watching Cardinal Rearings—Part 2
As dad was taking care of his hungry offspring, mom entered the scene part way through the meal and pecked up her own food—completely ignoring her mate and kids. It was as if she was now turning the job of fueling over to her hubby. In fact, if mom is going to lay eggs for the next brood, she will rely on dad to finish raising the earlier clutch. The incubation period for cardinals is up to two weeks, followed by a nestling period of another one to two weeks—so they can raise broods some 3-4 weeks apart, if all goes well (for example, if dad completes the child raising).
This is exactly what happened. About a month later I was alerted once again by the frenetic chipping/cheeping of a cardinal fledgling. (It’s an unmistakable triple-note, high-pitched call.) I looked to see mom land on the ground beneath the feeder and her noisy child drop awkwardly behind her, insistently begging. She ignored it and abruptly flew off. The baby fluttered up into the tree. I then saw dad filling his beak at the feeder and fly over to his baby—but not too close. Dad chipped away at it (dad style, double notes, deeper tone), encouraging his baby to come to him, as if urging it to practice flying, in order to get fed. I watched him feed the kid 3-4 times, always flying to a different branch and coaxing the fledgling to come to him.
Four days later I again saw dad, this time with two youngsters. Instead of responding to their pleas with food, he aggressively flew at them, chasing them off. He repeatedly did this, until he’d scattered them. Was he forcing them into a life of self-reliance? A couple of days later I saw one youngster at the feeder, pecking away on its own. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed to be successful in its attempts to feed itself. (Or was it just going through the motions?)
Each year I have watched the cardinal pair raise their young (although not in such detail), after which I never again see the youngsters. Throughout the fall, winter, and following spring the only two cardinals around here are mom and pop. Their kids have dispersed—probably rather close by, but I lose touch with them and have no idea of their whereabouts. How many survive? The survival rate of songbirds is not very high. How many successfully mate and carry on the family tradition? I have no idea.
I never saw a fledgling again for another month. I was thinking that two broods was the end of this summer’s kid raising. I assumed that my good fortune of seeing both broods successfully raised and fledged had run its course for the summer, but Lady Luck had another gift in store. About a month later (now mid August) I once again heard that insistent cardinal baby chipping sound. A third brood! I looked toward the feeder, to see a youngster perched on a twig, exhorting his dad for some food. Dad dutifully flew to the feeder, filled his bill with sunflower nuts and then stuffed them into the pleading beak of his child. It was a thrill for me to witness that third brood come to a successful conclusion. I almost felt like these youngsters were my grandkids, about to take on the big world on their own. Bon voyage!
My final peek at this third brood came three days later, when I saw three cardinal kids land on the feeder platform, next to dad. They all looked expectantly at him, hoping to get stuffed again, but he ignored them and flew off. All three of them began hesitantly to peck at seeds on their own. I wonder if I’ll get a chance in another few days to watch dad shoo this last brood away—forcing them to begin foraging for themselves in a new location. After all, this is his feeder and he’s not about to put up with competition from any adult cardinal.
This is exactly what happened. About a month later I was alerted once again by the frenetic chipping/cheeping of a cardinal fledgling. (It’s an unmistakable triple-note, high-pitched call.) I looked to see mom land on the ground beneath the feeder and her noisy child drop awkwardly behind her, insistently begging. She ignored it and abruptly flew off. The baby fluttered up into the tree. I then saw dad filling his beak at the feeder and fly over to his baby—but not too close. Dad chipped away at it (dad style, double notes, deeper tone), encouraging his baby to come to him, as if urging it to practice flying, in order to get fed. I watched him feed the kid 3-4 times, always flying to a different branch and coaxing the fledgling to come to him.
Four days later I again saw dad, this time with two youngsters. Instead of responding to their pleas with food, he aggressively flew at them, chasing them off. He repeatedly did this, until he’d scattered them. Was he forcing them into a life of self-reliance? A couple of days later I saw one youngster at the feeder, pecking away on its own. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed to be successful in its attempts to feed itself. (Or was it just going through the motions?)
Each year I have watched the cardinal pair raise their young (although not in such detail), after which I never again see the youngsters. Throughout the fall, winter, and following spring the only two cardinals around here are mom and pop. Their kids have dispersed—probably rather close by, but I lose touch with them and have no idea of their whereabouts. How many survive? The survival rate of songbirds is not very high. How many successfully mate and carry on the family tradition? I have no idea.
I never saw a fledgling again for another month. I was thinking that two broods was the end of this summer’s kid raising. I assumed that my good fortune of seeing both broods successfully raised and fledged had run its course for the summer, but Lady Luck had another gift in store. About a month later (now mid August) I once again heard that insistent cardinal baby chipping sound. A third brood! I looked toward the feeder, to see a youngster perched on a twig, exhorting his dad for some food. Dad dutifully flew to the feeder, filled his bill with sunflower nuts and then stuffed them into the pleading beak of his child. It was a thrill for me to witness that third brood come to a successful conclusion. I almost felt like these youngsters were my grandkids, about to take on the big world on their own. Bon voyage!
My final peek at this third brood came three days later, when I saw three cardinal kids land on the feeder platform, next to dad. They all looked expectantly at him, hoping to get stuffed again, but he ignored them and flew off. All three of them began hesitantly to peck at seeds on their own. I wonder if I’ll get a chance in another few days to watch dad shoo this last brood away—forcing them to begin foraging for themselves in a new location. After all, this is his feeder and he’s not about to put up with competition from any adult cardinal.
Monday, August 23, 2010
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