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EPILOQUE
Some twenty years have passed. It will suffice to say that I went to college, majored in English and landed a job in a publishing house. Soon thereafter I married David, a teacher. We have two children, a daughter Cara eleven, and a son Andrew seven. A year ago we bought an old sprawling house in the outskirts of the city. David works in town, I work at home editing books for a publisher. I'm also writing a book myself.
The dream adventures ended when I entered college. The other day I came across a folder in which I found an outline of the dream-like episodes, intended for some college assignment but never used. While leafing through the pages I had the uncanny feeling that fragments of these episodes were popping up in my present life almost daily. Curious whether echoes of youthful flights were now surfacing in actual experience, I decided to pay attention to what transpires during the course of a day—track my activities and observe their effect on my inner state and behavior.
Next morning after the children left for school, I cleared the table and with a cup of coffee sat down by the window in the kitchen alcove. This was the time I usually withdrew into myself or planned the day. This morning however I was eager to work on my book and did not linger but made the beds, took a shower and dressed in a hurry.
At the desk, I reread what I had written last, then started a new paragraph. An hour later I glanced over what I had just written and changed several words. The changes shifted the direction the plot was taking which prompted me to rewrite the last page. In a sudden clarity of mind, trusting the moment at hand, words started gushing at such a speed that page after page of typing could hardly keep up. I stopped when a wave of exhaustion washed over the mind. The rush lasted for almost an hour yet it seemed that only minutes had passed.
Somewhat disoriented by the experience, I made a list of groceries, planning to shop before the kids came home from school. Then called the plumber to check whether he was coming this afternoon as scheduled. Then a friend called to tell me about the spat she had with her husband that morning. Finding polite commiseration tedious I cut the call short.
After lunch with pencil in hand I picked up the book I had to finish editing and curled up in my favorite chair. Expecting to work for several hours, I was deeply immersed in the verbal constructs of another mind when the plumber rang the bell. Coming up from the basement he told me that he did not touch the leaking joint for fear the main riser would collapse. Refusing to do a patch-up job he promised to call me with an estimate within a week.
The news hit me hard. We had just finished repairing the roof and the loan we'd taken to cover the cost was already straining our budget. Making ends meet was a pressing concern, an added expense too stressful to contemplate.
After the plumber left I called another company for a second opinion and left a message for David. He called me back and hearing what the plumber said, suggested I put a larger bucket under the joint. This upset me even more for an unfixed leak can only increase the expense.
Such events sapped energy to no end. I was so upset that I asked myself, should I stop writing my book and look for a full time job? Maybe the publisher could give me more work? To find out I called a friend at the office and learned that things were slow this season. That tightened the screw. A glance at the clock reminded me that it was time to go shopping.
Driving to the store I thought of the direction my life has taken. Having a family gave purpose and meaning to my life and that was comforting. But my so-called writing career was getting nowhere. And yet writing helped me to live, it calmed the mind and for now that should be enough. I remembered Gloria, another freelancer I recently met, and decided to call her later this afternoon.
Finished with shopping sooner than I expected, on my way home I stopped at the bank. Finding a long line I decided to stay and see how fast it moved. A woman in front of me turned, and shaking her head said, "The inefficiency of clerks these days..." "Is insulting," the man behind me finished the sentence. Most people were irritated, many fidgeting, some leaving the line already. I too was about to leave but realizing that I had ten more minutes to spare, stayed. The decision to take the delay in stride lifted anxiety. I did make it to the teller in time and in a cheerful frame of mind got home before the children walked in.
I called Gloria and asked how she was doing. A lot was on the burner in her life and she invited me to come to her house Thursday evening where a reading was to take place. Knowing that it would do me good, I promised to call her back.
Suddenly in a festive mood, I felt like cooking a special dinner to cheer up my husband as well. Eager to indulge in the delights cooking offered, I called Cara, and while we peeled and washed the vegetables, we chatted. At some point she asked me about the art of living, a headline she'd seen in a magazine at the dentist's office. Was there anything to it?
"Let me see," I mused. "To achieve anything worthwhile in any field calls for much practice and skill. The results may amount to art if in the handling or forming of a material—in this case you yourself are the material—means to bring out the best in you, to develop one's abilities to the utmost. Anyway, any art calls for lots of effort and lots of discipline."
"Everyone talks of discipline, what is it?" asked Cara.
"It is like the banks of a river that keep the energy from splattering all over. Discipline keeps your energy flowing in one direction, it concentrates attention on what you are doing."
"Aren't we there now?"
"Yes, in a small way," I smiled.
By then the vegetables were cut into cubes and disks and wedges, David's favorite soup ready for the pot. Cara then cooked the pudding and I the sauce with dried mushrooms we picked in Canada last summer.
"Smells good! What are we celebrating tonight?" asked David startling us both.
"Oh, nothing in particular. We felt like having something special tonight."
At dinner we talked about the events of the day at school, at work and at home. The plumber was not mentioned until the children sat down to their homework.
"We can't afford another loan," said David.
"I know. Let's wait for the estimates and see what's what."
"Agreed," said David.
We watched the news on TV in silence. Homework completed and revised, the family cuddled up on the sofa for the evening. Andrew fell soon asleep and as I took him upstairs, Cara followed. After saying goodnight, I joined David in the living room. By then he was immersed in the plot of a movie and with the movie the day ended.
Lying awake in bed I relived the events of the day.
In my youth the world and I were like two forces moving in the same direction at a different pace, often in collision. To stay "in the running" demanded that I switch gears often—slow down when events around me move slowly, rev up when they move faster—adjust my inner pace to the momentum of events in focus. I was in harmony with the world when circumstance and aspiration ran on parallel tracks at the same speed, and when the two realms were out of synchrony friction set in.
Now I see that each falling in-and-out of synchrony was hinged to the duration of friction between internal and external events; external durations marked by lapses between changes observed in a thing's appearance or position in space, internal durations by lapses between the onset of friction and the lifting of it. In both cases before and after punctuated an event's duration, before marking when a change was first observed, after when my attention shifted. What we call time is the duration cut loose from an observable beginning and its ending—the interim lifted out of context an abstraction suspended in the mind—time a construct of the human mind without a correlate in the actual world. Though the word time implies motion, the mental construct has no velocity no duration and no position in space other than what the mind assigns to it—the word time is merely one other label attached to one other phenomena. The impression that time is in motion must have originated in the fact that the sun and the earth are in motion, and so is shadow, light, and darkness—their velocity, their duration, their position in space suggesting that time is moving.
The invention of calendars and clocks has introduced other assumptions. The calendar has extended the abstracted duration to the span of a solar year and subdivided the solar year into months, weeks and days, while clocks subdivide days and nights into hours, minutes and seconds. Calendars and clocks have made the phenomena, underlying the word time, tangible and fixed in a spatial content. And once the numerically sequential progression of time (in calendars and clocks) turned out to be a useful measure of time, the linear perception of time we live by to this day has pushed all other perceptions out of the way. At this point the misconception of the space-time continuum might have originated. So, when we say so many years have past since this or that event, we add up not the passage of time but the revolutions of three planetary bodies in orbit completed during that span.
How did I fare today?
This morning, alone in the house with a cup of coffee at the alcove table, I did not slip into Personal Time to review the day ahead, as was my habit. This morning I was eager to work on my book and, squarely in Circular Time, rushed through the morning's routine—hands doing their thing, the mind tracking clouds. At my desk I recall making revisions, pushing words through the belabored tunnels of thought, when in a turn of a sentence a slowly twisting discomfort took a leap—something inside me, something that existed in me before, now propelled by a sudden clarity of mind, spilled onto paper at a speed that blocked out thought. There was no volition, no sense of duration. No inkling of time passing or time slipping by or time halted. No sense of time whatsoever. There was only the sensation of energy rushing through me and spilling outward. During the spill I was an instrument—a conduit to energy passing through me not acting upon me. The results—a surprise. The event—a coming together of parts that seemed to be there already but unconnected before.
To settle the mind I made the list of groceries. Poised in Clock Time memory rummaged the refrigerator and pantry shelves marking what I needed to pick up at the market. This mind-set shifted to the River of Time when the neighbor called to talk about the spat with her husband. As I listened politely, visions of the pit in the meadow, Auntie's face leaning into mine slipped across the mind. Disturbed, I cut the conversation short.
In reliving the events of the day I remembered that when editing the book, when analyzing the galley proofs paragraph after paragraph, I was squarely in Clock Time—watching out for words or passages which distracted from the linear progression of cause and effect that moved the plot. The plumber's bad news—events beyond my control—threw me back into the River of Time. With our family's wellbeing at stake, there was no room for scruples and the thought of a full time job was the right thought. I must admit that during that throwback the comforts of Time Stagnant were alluring. I shuddered at how ready I was to ditch the world with its petty demands.
Driving to the market I slipped into Personal Time which scattered the gloomy thoughts. The quick of my being under the oculus, I listened for those encouraging or discouraging echoes that ready me for action or leave me cautious. As usual, contact with the most intimate place of my being restored a sense of security, the feeling quite apart from the security a fulltime job would offer.
In the market I paced myself and ran fast through the list. But when I stepped into the bank with a mind fixed in Clock Time, seeing the line felt like the world itself was conspiring against me. The setup clashed with the pace of my inner state and I had to decide whether to put up with the indignation or skip the bank.
My resistance to change gears made standing in line frustrating. In that I was not alone. But having ten minutes to spare, instead of ridiculing the set up I chose to accept the situation and see how fast the line would move. The instant I made the decision, in a sigh aggravation drained like murky water and a balsamic relief seeped in. It was not a matter of patience or resignation, or submission to regulations, it was a change in outlook that brought relief. Switching concepts from Clock Time to the Here & Now gave occasion to observe people caught in an unpleasant situation. And it did not stop there—this small and apparently insignificant mental flip made me feel that by ignoring the bank's regulations I took control of the situation, that I was actually living my life deliberately, even in adverse situations. Yes, the relief reached that far.
The experience boiled down to this—when my mind is racing, the world appears to be standing still; when the mind disconnects from the surroundings, the world no longer intrudes. In short, change the focus of attention and the world "adjusts," stops bothering me.
Gloria's invitation tickled my curiosity and the prospect of change in routine uplifted my spirit. And when Cara and I were cooking and chatting in the kitchen, grounded in the Here & Now, the afternoon passed swiftly. The festive mood was not accidental.
The good flow lasted throughout dinner as each family member paid attention to and received attention when we shared what happened during the day to each of us. I remember how during supper both David and I avoided talking about the plumbing—it would have switched the mood to Clock Time, cut short the mood of the evening. Instead, we let the feeling run its course.
OK. If the five senses are windows through which the swiveling head receives impressions, then in the Here & Now the senses pull the strings and the direct energy input takes sensations for a ride. In the River of Time the windows are wide open and the mind, on the lookout for danger, is acutely vigilant. In Clock Time the windows have stained glass panels in them, convictions and beliefs tinting impressions and thoughts, the rational mind pulling the strings. In Stagnant Time the windows are bolted from within and in the absence of sensory input the mind invents a world of its own. In Personal Time the windows are flung wide open, the mind ready to use every change to advantage. In Circular Time the windows focus on the confluence of inner and outer realms, the mind attending to matters of existence. And in the Absence of Time all windows focus on what is at hand, a direct energy output bypassing the mind altogether.
What have I learned?
First, it makes a difference whether I relate to things near or far, distance setting the pace at which my mind and the body respond: the near clamoring for immediate attention, the far relaxing the urgency. Also, that each of the seven time-frames engage different faculties and corresponding sensibilities. If I fail to notice change (inner or outer) and stick to a prevailing mind-set, mental habits take over. And then I tackle events with unfit rigging—unsuitable sensors, unmatched faculties and wrong approaches frustrating my efforts. One other observation: related mind-sets can also be used to manipulate or take advantage of others.
Furthermore, I notice that perceptions of time tend to replace long standing attitudes, the shift advantageous. Attitudes, distilled from experience by generations, follow a simple logic: what worked in a situation before, is apt to work in a similar situation as well. Thus attitudes, a learned behavioral shortcut, are quick to skip over the differences in similar situations which, when acted upon, bring up unexpected results. While attitudes prescribe behavioral habits, perceptions of time hook the senses into the energy content inherent in a situation, the reading encouraging or discouraging to respond in kind. And while attitudes offer behavioral and mental shortcuts, time concepts minimize risk and failure.
Something else hits the quick: in situations that are beyond my control and indifferent to my presence, I am utterly alone—no one else can possibly know how at that moment my inner state relates to that external situation. I'd better trust my hunches, for experience is not always reliable. And since time concepts affect my outlook and behavior, I'd better avoid hanging on to one time-frame, for time-frames, like attitudes, are also habit forming.
Come to think of it, deeply ingrained outlooks and thought patterns do not plague individuals alone. It seems that entire nations are inclined to live under the spell of one dominant time frame—emerging civilizations are apt to wade in and out of Stagnant Time; those caught in the crossroads of change to squander their energy and resources in the River of Time; those consumed by progress to face the pitfalls of Clock Time, while spent civilizations recollect themselves in Circular Time. Each of the above approaches stipulates specific thoughts which stipulate a compatible outlook which in turn distils a philosophy of life based on beliefs and customs that hold a society together.
In a sudden foreshortening of vision the inner and outer realities split apart—the tangible reality of the external world standing in juxtaposition to the intangible realm of sensations, feelings, dreams and thoughts. And as I was gazing at the rift, the two, like the two sides of a coin, fused into one indivisible whole, both of the same world but facing different horizons. I—me—the mind—a catalyst sandwiched in between.
In the stillness of the night I wondered how will Cara and Andrew fare in a world that marches to the beat of clocks, in a world where inner clocks are considered detrimental to progress and shunned as antiquated. In this age of information where every twitch of a thought filters through someone else's opinion, who will answer the increasingly more complex questions when scientific investigations supersede each other almost non stop? Will my children pay attention to what lies beyond the rational? Will they remember to weigh in all their faculties?
That night I dreamt that I was a teenager back in my parent's house, my children standing beside me. We were looking at my childhood toys, Andrew counting them aloud, "One, two, three, four..." And then he stopped. Every time he said a number, the counted toy disappeared.
"Why did you stop?" asked Cara pointing to the remaining toys.
"I can't go on," said Andrew. "If there is no life there is no birth. If there is no birth there is no death. If there is no death there is no life."
Startled by his reply I woke up. How come his answer sounded like a profound confirmation of life? Change—change was the constant which kindles hope and makes things new!
With a sigh of relief I turned in bed.
Good night—sleep well—dream—
THE END
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