On being a traveler, a seeker, a troubadour

Listen! I will be honest with you,
I do not offer the old smooth prizes,
but offer rough new prizes,
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d,
you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.
-W.Whitman Song of the open Road v11

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I came across this passage this morning. And it has me pondering. Having been someone planted in one place for a long time, owner of homes, parent of children, traveler in business, but always returning to one place; Also world traveler but without focus more than learning, exposure, possibility.. And the question has been posing itself for sometime now: What now…

These are the days that must happen to you…

I think, but do not know, that what is next; that what must be done in order to serve the emerging consciousness and the life that is struggling to emerge from its toxic womb;
that it is going to require something of this nature and quality. Something about pressing into an entirely different paradigm.  A path that will run straight thru the center of my fears, my longings; fulfilled and otherwise, and then onto whatever it is that is sometimes called calling. I call it the center of my longing.

I think, but am not certain, that this poem is one of calling to live on the edge of ones calling, ones spirit. And if that is to be a traveler, a troubadour, then be that. And if to be part of this spot, this land, this community..then do that. Whether the travel is, inside or outside, or some mix of both, live on the edge of that calling.

Do not let questions that are too small, yet feel comfortable beguile from the knowing that is deeper in.  However comfortable.  However fearful.

The world, this emerging world, needs also travelers and troubadours to bring news from other worlds into other worlds. At the moment, that seems to be what I need to be preparing for. again.

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider–
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give–yes or no, or maybe–
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

~William Stafford

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Our relationships depend upon such things as are found in this poem. The knowing, and the wanting to know the other person. The vigilance to be aware and knowing of those small betrayals that defend us from each other, and if left unknown, may break us. How important it is to be awake, if… awake we are. To maintain the heart and life of the relationship by being true to ourselves, in the context of being true to the relationship.
There must be better commentary on this poem and its depths. Perhaps to leave it just stand on its own should be sufficient. And it is. I wanted to add my amen to the thoughts told here as a way to assimilate them.

A Contribution to Statistics

Out of a hundred people

those who always know better
– fifty-two

doubting every step
– nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take too long
– as high as forty-nine,

always good
because they can’t be otherwise
– four, well maybe five,

able to admire without envy
– eighteen,

suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
– sixty, give or take a few,

not to be taken lightly
– forty and four,

living in constant fear
of someone or something
– seventy-seven,

capable of happiness
– twenty-something tops,

harmless singly, savage in crowds
– half at least,

cruel
when forced by circumstances
– better not to know
even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact
– just a couple more
than wise before it,

taking only things from life
– thirty
(I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
– eighty-three
sooner or later,

righteous
– thirty-five, which is a lot,

righteous
and understanding
– three,

worthy of compassion
– ninety-nine,

mortal
– a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

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by Wislawa Szymborska