ROMANESQUE ARCHES: IN PRAISE OF THE HUMAN

interior, Norwich Cathedral

Romanesque Arches

Inside the huge Romanesque church the tourists jostled in the half darkness.

Vault gaped behind vault, no complete view.

A few candle flames flickered.

An angel with no face embraced me

and whispered through my whole body:

“Don’t be ashamed of being human, be proud!

Inside you vault opens behind vault endlessly.

You will never be complete, that’s how it’s meant to be.”

Blind with tears

I was pushed out on the sun-seething piazza

together with Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Mr. Tanaka, and Signora Sabatini,

and inside each of them vault opened behind vault endlessly.

~ Tomas Tranströmer

**

I particularly love this passage:

An angel with no face embraced me

and whispered through my whole body:

“Don’t be ashamed of being human, be proud!

Inside you vault opens behind vault endlessly.

You will never be complete, that’s how it’s meant to be.”

We will never be complete because we are a part of a larger whole and of the on-going process of constant evolution of human culture. It takes a village; it takes a city; it takes humanity. Ancient cathedrals have those stunning ceilings, “vault after vault.” And yet that architectural marvel is simple compared to the complexity of a single human being. That complexity is heightened by our being a part of a larger organism, our minds part of the collective psyche. Poets remind us of that.

But let’s not ignore the fact that the insight presented in “Romanesque Arches” is related not just to church architecture, but, I dare say, to Christianity. One positive thing about Christianity is that it recognizes and values the individual. It says to a person: “Your life is sacred and of infinite value to God.” That Christian practice has often contradicted this message is another matter. For the moment, I want to concentrate on the ideal.

This ideal meant a lot to Milosz. In a poem about one of his lovers, he lamented that she gave herself to men too easily, forgetting she was the daughter of the King. Most notably in “Late Ripeness,” he tried to remind us that we are all royalty – the children of the King.

That’s wonderful, we may say, but now that Christianity is in decline, can we still say to someone in suicidal depression, for instance, “Your life is sacred and of infinite value” – and just leave out “God” out of it? Can we insert “humanity” in its place? Given all the atrocities of the past and present, and those yet to come (is there any doubt?), can we be proud to be human? 

In spite of the atrocities, I think the answer is yes. For me, the greatness of the accomplishments prevails. But there is so much to be done to better this world, once we start from the framework of respect for human beings. The sooner we transfer reverence from deity or deities to humanity, the better.

Someone may ask, “But what about the afterlife? If we revere this life, on earth, what about all those who live hoping for another existence, in heaven?” It’s been pointed out that there are virtually no atheists in sub-Saharan Africa; atheism seems to be the luxury of people who live in relative security and comfort. Thus the prevalence of secularism in Western Europe, in countries with a social security net. The yearning for heaven seems to be related to the hardship of earthly life. In fact, already Karl Marx, endlessly quoted as having called religion “the opium of the people,” also remarked that it is the “sigh of the oppressed creature.”

The sociological explanation may explain averages – yes, the poor and uneducated are more likely to be religious – but not individual cases. Some people seem to have a natural tendency to mysticism, regardless of education (I see that among poets all the time). The yearning that something of us continue after bodily death is understandable.

No one can speak of the afterlife with absolute certainty. I've been trying to “live the question” for many years now, with little benefit. What changed my life was rather accepting this answer: The only paradise we will experience is here now.

Only moments of paradise, of course, just glimpses. But to miss those moments is to lose everything. That insight (not original to me – it’s the message of countless poems) was not the one that closed the door on depression, but it reinforced it.

Can there be a non-theistic sense of the sacred? Even when we see the universe as self-evolving and self-organizing without any need for a supreme being, the “king of kings,” we can still be in awe of its beauty and mystery. Neither the “starry sky above me” nor the “moral law within me” requires a theistic foundation. And we can also be awed by the amazing feats accomplished by the human brain, especially when people co-operate. Nor do we need to invoke antibiotics, the cell-phone, or the Moon landing; the accomplishment evident in medieval cathedrals is already a stunning testimony to what humans can achieve (when not engaged in killing one another, a contrarian voice adds – and that voice has to be acknowledged; moral progress is happening, but it has been slow).

Reims Cathedral 

THE HUMANITARIAN ORIENTATION

At a poetry reading I recently attended, soon after the announcement that Tomas Tranströmer won the 2011 Nobel Prize for Literature, someone remarked, “American poets have no chance of winning the Nobel Prize because they are always gazing at their navels.”

But I don’t think the reason that an American poet has practically no chance for the Nobel Prize is self-centeredness. It’s rather that European judges/literary critics see poetry as a genre of wisdom literature, a kind of philosophy with imagery and metaphors thrown in. They do not recognize that "the personal is philosophical," to use a twist on an old saying. The tradition of poetry as wisdom makes it harder for European critics to recognize wisdom when it’s implicit in a personal narrative. But Robert Cording, for instance, is actually pretty explicit (“grief is endless, delight is inevitable”). He’s still probably too personal for European standards, misguided as those are in my opinion. Just telling a true story is incredibly demanding, no matter how narrow the slice (and it’s precisely the “narrow slice” approach that can yield huge truths).

Now, the skeptic in me asks, “Are you sure that the personal is philosophical? Does Sharon Olds have an underlying philosophy that you find nourishing?” I think it’s safe to say that she does cherish the body and love at all levels, and now and then we can get some psychological insight from her poems, but no one would call her a philosophical poet. Her excellence lies in providing vivid details. And I am forced to admit that the personal, when not illuminated by insight, can remain on the level of gossip, of a colorful story that we don’t know what to do with other than maybe say, “That’s life. Those things happen.” As Olds said, “I am not a thinker.” Maybe a little more thinking would be a good thing.

But ultimately it’s pointless to speak about European poetry versus American poetry. There are great poems, and those rise above any categories. Great poems are both personal and philosophical, both lyrical and narrative (though it may be only a tiny wisp of a narrative). Po-Chu-i’s gems delight us not solely because they are illuminated by the wisdom of Zen, but because PCI’s personality is so evident in them, and always, always, he brings in the mysterious beauty of nature.

That mysterious beauty of nature includes the beauty of a human being. When we look at others with the eyes of tenderness, how beautiful a human face is, a human body! In his poem "At Baths at Esalen," Stephen MacDonald writes:

This evening, in the baths at Esalen, I open
my eyes to find light creeping like resurrection

under the pall covering my face. I lift
my oiled and massaged flesh from the table
to find myself in a world of naked human bodies,

silent in the mist, slick with the waters
of the baths, the beauty of each limb, each wrist

and ankle, almost more than I can bear.

Perhaps a factor other than the presence of overt philosophy is even more important. Poets who win the Nobel Prize tend to have a humanitarian attitude. They show reverence for the human. They say each life is sacred and of infinite value, and we are all a family. Milosz had that attitude. He loved people and could never really get over what he witnessed and experienced during WWII. And for all his religious struggles, there was one thing he could admit: that he knew a statue in a church would never nod at him, never give him what he constantly prayed for: a sign confirming the existence of God. In the end he became reconciled to the thought that the only trace of something we might call sacred or divine could be found in the human community: in a kind gesture or smile.

But wait: shouldn’t it be “something we might call sacred and human”? Human, that is, in the best sense of the word, as in “the human spirit.” That spirit, the human spirit, has manifested itself in deeds of magnificent courage, heroism and endurance. We can feel proud that we as humanity are capable of what first seemed impossible.

Philip Levine is a humanitarian with a special focus: he insists that we respect the working man and woman. I remember, in one of the articles about him (I think in the New York Times), the author exclaiming that there are people in Levine’s poems! There are people in Tony Hoagland’s poems too. With some effort, we could come up with other names of poets whose poems are “populated.” But is that a typical contemporary American poem? Now, there is nothing wrong with introspection; without introspection, there would hardly be the kind of poetry we call lyrical. I think the charge of self-centeredness comes from the sense that there isn’t enough sense of connection with others. Obviously, there needs to be a balance: solidaire/solitaire. It’s not easy because the digital age makes us interact with computer monitors rather than have face-to-face encounters.

It is a challenge. Before that post-Tranströmer/Nobel Prize news poetry reading, I was thinking of a dog I met on my little walk the day before, and how delightfully affectionate the dog was toward me, a total stranger. If only people could be so affectionate! But we aren’t at that level of enlightenment. Great poets help us enlarge our empathy.

Tomas Tranströmer and his wife Monica. Note the odd way he holds his right hand – this is characteristic of stroke victims. But I don’t want this to be the last statement in this post. Note, above all, the love that one can sense looking at the photo of this couple.

Steve:

I'm pleased that you commented on the importance of the beauty of the human. The image of the human as a portal to an endless opening of vaults – always growing, never complete – is stunning, and completely congruent with my own perception of who/what we really are.

And here is the truth of truths: "The statement 'Your life is sacred and of infinite value' is sufficient unto itself simply in the context of humanity – because being human is such a grand thing." What a powerful realization that is – and what significance it holds for a way of living life that brings peace, acceptance, and joy – even amidst the inevitable sorrow and suffering that are also a part of being human. Very powerful!

Oriana:

Ginette Paris commented that it’s still very soon after the death of god; it will take several generations to formulate a life philosophy that fully affirms the human, without denial or wishful thinking – including mortality, suffering, and our capacity for evil as well as for affection, altruism, and immense achievement. I think we are slowly moving toward the position that human life is sacred and war is unacceptable, famine and torture are unacceptable. Obviously we are not there yet, but I see the “writing on the wall.”

Instead of an invisible being somewhere out there (or everywhere, which is just as nebulous), we can gain a sense of pride when we remember that we are part of humanity. Instead of the “holy spirit,” we will speak about the “human spirit.” That’s the spirit we saw in action when the astronauts landed on the moon – an act of incredible courage – and also whenever we hear yet another report of someone risking his life to save a stranger. 

While I favor the translation of “sacred” as “human in the highest sense,” I also favor taking what is best from each religious tradition. Parables teaching compassion – no, we don’t want these stories to be lost. Buddhist wisdom of detachment and serenity – of course we can use it. But that will happen automatically, I think: the chaff will fall away, and what is nourishing will remain.

Hyacinth:

The photo is sort of like the vault goes on and on. The blog is delicious. I'm beginning to like Tranströmer more and more, and I like the idea of the human in poetry being is as important or more important than the sacred.

The picture of him is charming and I saw several others all like in that he has a twinkle in his eye.

Oriana:

I think the word "sacred" need not and should not be confined to religion. It can and should be used in reference to nature and human beings (we are of course part of nature). We can indeed say to someone, "Your life is sacred." It's sacred because it's a human being, with all the fantastic human abilities. My mother used to say, "The most wonderful thing in the universe is the human brain."

I'm particularly against the idea that we receive "divine love." The love we receive is human love and canine love -- there is no doubt about those two kinds, and I'm including dogs because sometimes, sadly, that's the only love that a person living alone receives.

Now, perhaps there is some sort of caring from the universe -- so many people want to believe that. But let's face it, there is no proof of it, while tsunamis and other natural disasters that used to be called "an act of God" certainly do happen. So let's give credit where credit is due: human love, canine companions. Maybe dolphins, but how many of us get to establish a relationship with a dolphin (or an elephant etc -- social animals with large brains can be said to be capable of the kind of attachment we'd call love). Any other love is conjectural.

Charles:

Love the symmetry and light of the photograph.

Re: divine love, I always feel better when I consider that god is a verb.

Oriana:

I could call myself a church junkie. I’ve always loved the cavernous twilight of old churches, and have spent hours sitting in a pew (what happened to wonderful old pews?), just soaking in the quiet and that special architecture, arches upon arches. In Warsaw especially, it felt so soothing to step out from a noisy street into that other realm. We need all the paradise we can get.

I don’t mind it if people claim to sense the presence of something divine. As long as we drop the archaic image of the Bully in the Sky who tosses people into hell, and get closer to the Sufi idea of an accepting Friend, even Lover, mental health may well benefit from some feel-good prayer and/or meditation. Recovering addicts in particular need a “sinners welcome,” unconditionally loving Someone. This Friend is also constantly developing, maturing (in Rilke’s words, “we are building God” – this certainly applies to any concept of God). Furthermore, as for the god-is-a-verb, the actions of feeding the hungry and being kind to the stranger mean so much more than ritual and keeping a special diet. If it’s helpful to a person to see Christ in the homeless man they help, then I say, “Whatever works.”

Scott:

Once again you have introduced me to an interesting poet, have now 
read several of his poems. And his life is fascinating as well; 
doctor, poet and recovering stroke victim....thankfully it did not 
silence his pen. The biographies of poets are as intriguing as the 
poems themselves; your blog is a great education in the art of verse 
and I never fail to take away a great deal. Currently at the bedside 
of my 90 year old father-in-law, hope he can go home soon from the 
hospital, he's had a blood infection. He's been Dad, Father in law and 
Grandfather all in one.

Oriana:

My best wishes of speedy recovery to your father-in-law.

One interesting thing about Tranströmer is that he used to work as a therapist with juvenile delinquents. He said that he got always asked if his work as a therapist influenced his poetry, and never if his poetry influenced his therapy practice.  This made me aware that it’s a two-way street: it’s not only that our experiences influences our writing; our writing can also influence our experiences.

Lilith:

Your blog on the Romanesque Arches was wonderful....I will ponder it a long time.

About the recent death of Steve Jobs, there was a quotation from him about how knowing he was going to die freed him to realize he had nothing to lose. Heaven on earth, so to speak. I've been absorbing everything I can find about this amazing human, including everything I hadn't known about him before.

Thanks again for all your blogs.

Oriana:

Steve Jobs was one of the people who make us proud to be human. But many outstanding individuals never get famous. If we look around, we see greatness and quiet heroism all around.

Full acceptance of death, without kidding ourselves that paradise is somewhere else, and can be experienced only after dying, means a fuller embrace of life. Hey, we better stop wasting time! All kinds of nonsense falls away, just as Steve Jobs said. True priorities remain.

As Keats said, this is not the Vale of Tears, but of Soul-Making – what Jung would call “individuation.” We are always creating ourselves: that’s why it matters how we live, even what we read and watch. Life is sacred and not to be wasted. It is to be maximized and enjoyed. I think more and more people are accepting this (though it’s harder for the young; experiencing the progress of aging “wonderfully concentrates the mind”). 

MOTHER NATURE REVISITED

The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), Diego, Myself and Señor Xólotl

When you came back to me –

I painted a green day-hand and a brown night-hand
holding up Mexico, her canyons and deserts,
    her candelabra cacti.

And we were there, embraced by our land.
You were my naked baby
who is reborn every minute with your third eye open. 

Even our dog Señor Xólotl was curled
on the wrist of evening,
ready to bear our souls to the underworld if he had to.

Together, we stared out beyond the picture, saw
in the dark window a small woman in a wheelchair
cast out in a workshop far beyond the moon,

desperately mixing the colours of love
    until they vibrated –
watermelon greens, chilli reds, pumpkin orange.

She hurriedly drew the shattered arms
of the universe –
                             holding us all up

as if we were a mountain dripping roots and stones.

From What the Water Gave Me: Poems after Frida Kahlo (Seren, 2010)

© 2011 Pascale Petit

**

The modern idea of nature is chiefly benevolent. We speak of the nurturing “Mother Nature.” We don’t hear much about “Nature red in tooth and claw.” But let us take a look at that interesting passage in Tennyson’s In Memoriam:

55.

The wish, that of the living whole

No life may fail beyond the grave,

Derives it not from what we have

The likest God within the soul?

Are God and Nature then at strife,

That Nature lends such evil dreams?

So careful of the type she seems,

So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere

Her secret meaning in her deeds,

And finding that of fifty seeds

She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod,

And falling with my weight of cares

Upon the great world’s altar-stairs

That slope thro’ darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,

And gather dust and chaff, and call

To what I feel is Lord of all,

And faintly trust the larger hope.

  

 56.

‘So careful of the type?’ but no.

From scarped cliff and quarried stone

She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone:

I care for nothing, all shall go.

‘Thou makest thine appeal to me:

I bring to life, I bring to death:

The spirit does but mean the breath:

I know no more.’ And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,

Such splendid purpose in his eyes,

Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed

And love Creation’s final law–

Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw

With ravine, shriek’d against his creed–

Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,

Who battled for the True, the Just,

Be blown about the desert dust,

Or seal’d within the iron hills?

No more? A monster then, a dream,

A discord. Dragons of the prime,

That tare each other in their slime,

Were mellow music match’d with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail!

O for thy voice to soothe and bless!

What hope of answer, or redress?

Behind the veil, behind the veil.

~ here Nature’s indifference to human needs is duly lamented.  “I care for nothing; all shall go” is her reply to man’s desperate plea for immortality – and if not immortality, then at least of some show of caring.

Man’s helplessness was presented earlier in Canto 54:

So runs my dream, but what am I?

An infant crying in the night,

An infant crying for the light

And with no language but a cry.

~ together with the “lame hands of faith,” Tennyson, though in the end defending religion, seems mainly to have eloquently stated the case for nature’s alleged “cruelty.” Cruelty, however, implies that nature is deliberate evil; in fact, nature is merely amoral, as innocent as that “infant crying in the night.”

It’s interesting that Czeslaw Milosz, known for poems praising the beauty of nature, was not in fact all that far from from Tennyson’s position. He writes,

Amost every day, Public Television airs nature programs, mainly for young people. About spiders, fish, lizards, coyotes, animals of the desert or of alpine meadow, and so on. The technical excellence of the photography doesn’t prevent me from considering these programs obscene. Because what they show offends our human, moral understanding – not only offends it, but subverts it, for the thesis of these programs is: You see, that’s how it is in Nature; therefore, it is natural; and we, too, are a part of Nature, we belong to the evolutionary chain, we have to accept the world as it is.

If I turn off the television, horrified, disgusted by the images of mutual indifferent devouring, and also by the mind of the man who filmed it, is it because I am capable of picturing what this looks like when translated into the life of human society?

. . . The makers of those films have a scientific outlook and show the truth, nothing but the truth; furthermore, they appreciate the splendid photogeneity of nature.

. . . Is hunting and devouring each other the very essence of Nature? It is, that is why I dislike Nature.

~ A Year of the Hunter, pp 48-50 (1994; emphasis mine)

But, as usual, Milosz shows that he has two souls. The prose quoted above was written by his more elevated, Catholic soul. But his cat-loving pagan soul wrote this charming defense of nature:

To Mrs. Professor in Defense Of My Cat's Honor And Not Only

My valiant helper, a small-sized tiger 
Sleeps sweetly on my desk, by the computer, 
Unaware that you insult his tribe. 

Cats play with a mouse or with a half-dead mole. 
You are wrong, though: it's not out of cruelty. 
They simply like a thing that moves. 

For, after all, we know that only consciousness 
Can for a moment move into the Other, 
Empathize with the pain and panic of a mouse. 

And such as cats are, all of Nature is. 
Indifferent, alas, to the good and the evil. 
Quite a problem for us, I am afraid. 

Natural history has its museums, 
But why should our children learn about monsters, 
An earth of snakes and reptiles for millions of years? 

Nature devouring, nature devoured, 
Butchery day and night smoking with blood. 
And who created it? Was it the good Lord? 

Yes, undoubtedly, they are innocent, 
Spiders, mantises, sharks, pythons. 
We are the only ones who say: cruelty. 

Our consciousness and our conscience 
Alone in the pale anthill of galaxies 
Put their hope in a humane God. 

Who cannot but feel and think, 
Who is kindred to us by his warmth and movement, 
For we are, as he told us, similar to Him. 

Yet if it is so, the He takes pity 
On every mauled mouse, every wounded bird. 
Then the universe for him is like a Crucifixion. 

Such is the outcome of your attack on the cat: 
A theological, Augustinian grimace, 
Which makes difficult our walking on this earth.


~ Czeslaw Milosz, Facing the River (1995)

**

Here Milosz acknowledges the innocence of nature. Only humans mistakenly say: cruelty, and imagine the kind of deity who cares for every mouse and bird. Yet if this is so, “then the universe for him is like a Crucifixion,” Milosz brilliantly observes. This position – that nature is “cruel” – only makes our life more difficult. Much as he would like to believe in a totally caring god, Milosz will not condemn his beloved cat. The cat is as innocent as Frida Kahlo's dog, Señor Xólotl "curled . . . on the wrist of evening." 

But wait! The human psyche and human values cannot be so easily dismissed. We are the ones capable of pity for all suffering – and of remembering the beings, human and animal and vegetal, who are no more. Lois P. Jones sent me this beautiful French poem by Rilke:

WHAT SURVIVES 

Who says that all must vanish?
Who knows, perhaps the flight
of the bird you wound remains,
and perhaps flowers survive
caresses in us, in their ground.

It isn’t the gesture that lasts,
but it dresses you again in gold
armor – from breast to knees –
and the battle was so pure
an Angel wears it after you.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. A. Poulin 

***


Michael (at Mile 410 of the Pacific Crest Trail)

I enjoyed wrestling with the thoughts in your most recent post.

A great injustice, an unfortunate thoughtlessness, is the inappropriate use – the gross use – of and in humans and nature – there is no and, humans are nature. We are as much nature as any other creature (and gasp! we haven't even begun talking about the so-called inanimate...). The AND in Human and nature has lead to a world of fear and division and disregard and power-over.

One such consequence is the world as an animal Auschwitz – 58 billion land animals senselessly killed each year for food, worldwide. The creatures taken from the sea are many, many more. I saw a butcher buying goats in NW China. He lead them to his cart, grabbed them by the skin on the back, and hurled each over the 6' side of the cart and let each drop on its back, on the floor. For him, the goat was apart from him. He believed in the AND. Nature is to be controlled. Disregarded. Killed. Not worthy of respect, nor is there reason to be concerned for its suffering.

Last week I was a hiking a few miles south of The Devil's Punchbowl on the PCT and rounded a corner and nearly bumped into two young men. From their clothing I guessed they were on their first day-hike, venturing into the wilds with only Hollywood as a guide. The meeting was sudden, neither of us had heard the other coming. One of them said, "Damn, I thought you were a bear." A bear. Right. But he was serious and to support his concern, he held a handgun, a version of the famed 1911 pistol, hammer back. I wanted to laugh and at the same time slap him silly for being so naive and stupid and for endangering my life and those of others hikers. He believed in the AND.

In a general way it might be said there are two kinds of Pacific Crest Trail hikers: First, those who believe nature is a force to reckon with, to be wary of, and they plan for her volatile ways – these folks carry gear for every contingency – one, two, or even three first aid kits, a satellite phone or tracking device, GPS, maps for several miles in every possible direction, food for an extra day or two, a back-up water filter, too much clothing, snow shoes (in spring and summer?), a shovel, etc. They believe in the AND. The second kind believes nature is benevolent and they pack lightly. These are the ultra-light backpackers. They may carry an extra pair of socks. That's it. Enough food for the miles, no back-up gear. These hikers are nature.

It's the view. Of nature. That allows for these different approaches.

Not far from where I live in San Diego someone has scratched into the concrete sidewalk: WE ARE ONE WITH EVERYTHING! Yes, we are. And the walk we must learn to walk is the one without the AND.

I hear the reasoning of the deep ecologists in your discussion--deep ecologists acknowledge the interconnected of systems, but have little concern for the individual. So the earth didn't pause its ponderous revolution when I was born, nor will it pause when I die. But what would happen if humans ceased to exist? If the oceans died? Or the polar ice caps melt? 

Oriana:

The ice caps are already melting, of course. Humans who run the world (presidents, generals, CEO's) seem like a bunch of young male teenagers. The gang mentality. The adolescent belief that we are “separate, different, and superior.” Why are we superior? Because we have morality, while nature, we were taught, is “red in tooth and claw.”

And anyway, by the time the polar caps are totally melted, that will posterity’s problem, and who really cares for posterity? It’s been observed that some people never use the future tense. 

Even having children and grandchildren does not necessarily make them care. I remember having chatted with a real-estate developer. He said he was working on “developing” the hills around San Luis Obispo. “Not those hills!” I moaned. “That’s such a beautiful area.” “I know,” he replied. I used to hike there when I was in college.” “And where will your children hike?” I asked. At first he pretended not to hear. Then he said, “People need housing,” and became busy working on his laptop.

After all, most agree that profit is more important than nature.

You are correct in your argument that people don’t seem to realize that they ARE nature. Hence either the romanticized, deified version of Nature, or the degraded rape-her-while-you-can nature. But Milosz has gotten himself into a different conundrum. He is disgusted by the food chain: all this devouring. He wants a divine order where maybe we can just feed on light. This reminds me of Linda Pastan’s wonderful poem:

The Imperfect Paradise 

If God had stopped work after the fifth day

With Eden full of vegetables and fruits,

If oak and lilac held exclusive sway

Over a kingdom made of stems and roots,

If landscape were the genius of creation

And neither man nor serpent played a role

And God must look to wind for lamentation

And not to picture postcards of the soul,

Would he have rested on his bank of cloud,

With nothing in the universe to lose,

Or would he hunger for a human crowd?

Which would a wise and just creator choose:

The green hosannas of a budding leaf

Or the strict contract between love and grief?

~ Linda Pastan

Nevertheless, Milosz is sane enough not to call nature “cruel.” After having witnessed a huge amount of human cruelty, he knows very well that it’s not his cat that is cruel. And he realizes that not even the God of Love (as opposed to Blakean “Nobodaddy”) could open up to all suffering, because then the universe would be a constant crucifixion. And even God wants to be happy! So, in midst of sorrow, we must choose to live in joy. Only a basically joyful person, I suspect, can be emotionally strong enough to try to actively minimize suffering and environmental destruction. 


But what I particularly fear is people who don’t seem to have any sense of the sacred or, what may be equivalent, a sense of beauty. 

Scott:


Where DO you find those pictures?! The clarity of the images for your posts are really striking. I really liked the Chinese fisherman with his cormorants, saw one of those birds just this weekend on the coast of Georgia. The Chinese fisherman image on your post brought to mind, oddly enough, the thought of the Quakers and their being known as
Children of the Light; Lowell's 'Quaker Graveyard on Nantucket' comes to mind as well. 

Which that leads to Melville(Lowell as you probably know makes many allusions to 'Moby Dick'). Melville was haunted by Calvinism most of his life. Like Milosz he never fully escaped his upbringing though at the end of his life he seemed to have acquired some peace.

Oriana:


For images, I scour the Internet. The best images are often not attributed, to my astonishment. But maybe it’s better that way, in line with Internet generosity.

That's a wonderful comparison of Melville's Calvinism to Milosz's old-time Catholicism. Either way, it's not a lovable deity. I think Milosz had at least some moments of peace – several late poems indicate that. He felt that at least in his old age he’d be accepted “as is” – but certainly without any apologies for the huge amount of suffering he had to witness or experience, for the silence when he prayed that the suffering of others be relieved. I think Milosz arrived at moments of blissful acceptance and moments of agonized acceptance.