Recollected in tranquillity.
As I recall from my university days in English studies, William Wordsworth, by "recollected in tranquility" meant that experience can be fruitfully contemplated and written about while one has the time and leisure to do so. Also that when there is a little distance from the experience, emotions that might have been too intense at the time can then be processed. Distillation takes time. I have a very tranquil life here in my lovely home in the wilderness. I meditate a lot. I guide meditation for a group I am part of. I teach meditation courses. I read spiritual books. (I just reread Jonathan Livingston Seagull — love that brilliant white gull.) I listen to Mooji, Rupert Spira, and Joseph Goldstein. I include the odd bit of science where it crosses over with spirituality such as the talks available here: Sounds of SAND. On Being studios usually has thought-provoking and inspiring interviews. And in their off-shoot, Poetry Unbound, Pádraig Ó Tuama does a delicious dive into one poem per short episode.
Wordsworth was referring to experiences in nature and a lot of his sublime poetry arose out of his time spent in walks and adventures with his sister, Dorothy, and their literary friends. A basis of their friendships was spiritual as was much of the life of poets and artists in the Romantic period. Except when it was debauchery. And except that the term ‘sublime’ is used to describe their work more so than ‘spiritual.’ They sought and wrote about the truth that transcends human notions of spirituality and religion. Speaking of sublime art, in the CBC Arts newsletter this weekend they featured an artist whose work, it seems to me, fits this description. Have a look at the walkthrough video of Alice Teichert’s recent exhibition. I can’t put my finger on why, but it’s moving in a very deep way. And it's tranquil.
Like those Romantics, I do some recollecting here in my treehouse by the park. Many adventures in nature come to mind while I have, not by my choosing, a sedentary lifestyle. Some inspire paintings or poems. They used to arouse grief and nostalgia, but I’ve worked through much of that in my meditation practice and with my teachers. Right now, I am remembering how much I once enjoyed a hot sunny day and being outdoors in it. The heat worsens my MS symptoms so at the moment I am in air conditioning writing about it and speculating on the trend to hot weather. In my youth, it was rare for a day to reach 30°. I digress. Wordsworth’s phrase keeps coming up in my mind and so I ask, why?
Lately, a different kind of adventure is surfacing for review — the recent cancer journey. Mainly the surgery, complications, and recovery. It seems a little miraculous that in just three months I went from diagnosis to recovered and with no need for chemo or radiation. I’m a bit stunned! It happened so quickly and intensely, it seems surreal. Having learned not to dwell on things unnecessarily, what remains for me is greater openness, freedom, and humility. The ego-self has been knocked further aside. This looks like less reactivity, more understanding and compassion, and gratitude. Which happens to a lot of folks who’ve been through a major illness.
I’m getting back to usual routines. Where William and Dorothy might have spent time re-reading letters and journals, I just spent some time reviewing our modern-day version: email. A lot had piled up since February. Upon review, I have to believe that all the well-wishing and support had something to do with the success of my cancer treatment. There were many, many people praying for me, keeping me in their thoughts and hearts, practising metta and tonglen, sending cards, flowers, comforting gifts, and so many messages. There were definitely good vibes coming my way, much love, and helping hands.
Part of the Pattern, 2014, acrylic & collage, 12x18”
That overwhelming love and support will be recollected by me for the rest of my time here on earth with much gratitude. Equally so, I’ll continue to ponder in wonder and awe the mysterious turnings of the universe. That’s what the Romantics were famously on about, too: the universal truth reflected in beauty and love. I wrote an essay about that back in university and I just recently burned all those essays. Might've been something useful in there! Isn't that the way of decluttering. How mundane.
The copy I have of Jonathan Livingston Seagull was partially eaten by my dogs, but is still readable. It's hard cover and its paper jacket is long gone. It's full of beautiful photographs of seagulls. Just inside the cover, the image is of numerous seagulls flying in all sorts of directions. It is inscribed to my grandmother, my dad's mom, “who so loves the seagulls.” It's signed by the four of us in my dad's hand — each one beneath a seagull — David, Sheila, Sarah, Beccy. Unlike my essays, it seems this treasure was worth hanging onto. There's a lot there. History. Family. Spirituality. I wonder if my mother picked out the book; she was interested in eastern philosophy. You might not guess it from the title, but this story is analogous to a spiritual path. Despite all pressures and odds, Jonathan lives the way he is compelled to live and his discoveries are beyond even his own wildest dreams. He is a solitary flyer and loves the tranquil seas and skies in which he finds the highest truth. When he disappears into that truth, his students carry on the journey.
Sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to be here in solitude and tranquillity finding greater freedom, deeper truths. Maybe I'm finishing my mother’s journey. I mean, who knew that book would be read and appreciated fully by me fifty years later?! Or her tiny handwritten notes quoting eastern sages. But I've learned that nothing is profound because, in actuality, everything is — when we pay attention. There is no "supposed to,” no mundane or sublime, there just is.
And that is, well, sublime.
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Dorothy Wordsworth, having less formal education than her male counterparts — as was a woman’s fate in those days — was still very lettered and also could capture in words her intuitive and felt responses to nature. Her poet companions relied on that gift. Perhaps her intellect didn’t get in the way of her responses to what she saw and they could be captured in a more direct language. Her journals were published posthumously. Her turns of phrase and even direct quotes from her journals can be found in her more famous brother’s poetry. I am touched to read about the closeness of those siblings and their shared joy of nature. They commiserated on poetics as well. It is precious to have a close relationship of shared interests. Apparently her later years were spent indoors due to illness and bits of nature were brought indoors to her by her caregiving brother. I find this touching, too. Partly because it’s where I’m at — seeing nature out the window.
Early in my recovery, enjoying one of Rebecca’s homemade muffins.
