No such thing...

Lately, I am all about the serendipitous.  David and I were talking yesterday about how we really shouldn’t expect to be contented or happy all of the time.  We talked about how even the negative things that happen to us can provide us with learning experiences.  He was down and I tried to give him some specific examples of things that had happened that turned out to be beneficial in the long run.  For example, if he had stayed at West Point until graduation, he would probably have never met me!  We also talked about how learning to be accepting is so much more important than learning to be happy.  Anyway, later that afternoon he was reading on the hammock, enjoying the beautiful spring day in mid November, when he came upon the following passage.  “Happiness depends on conditions being perceived as positive, inner peace does not.”  This really made an impact on me.  What is life but our momentary perceptions of it anyway?

I started then wondering about the origin of the word serendipity.  That’s just what writers do, you know, wonder about words and things and write about their wonderings…  and I was delighted to discover that the word originates from a fairy tale, “The Three Princes of Serendip,” in which the royals are always making discoveries by accident of things they were not in quest of to begin with.  As the story goes, “You don’t reach Serendip (this is a former name for Sri Lanka) by plotting a course for it.  You have to set out in good faith for elsewhere and lose your bearings serendipitously.”

Perhaps that is why I am so enamored of the this whole idea—because I don’t really know what I am in quest of.  But I do somehow have faith that I will discover something, such as a poem, a painting, penicillin, dynamite, post-it notes, corduroy, America, something, along the way.  

 My idea of the perfect day is one in which I don’t really know what is going to happen.  That is why I love the days on my calendar that are empty.  It is even better when the weather is slightly cooler than my body temperature, overcast, maybe even slightly rainy.  I envision myself getting up early, dawdling over breakfast and coffee just because I can, and then heading out for a walk to my studio.  I’m not much for walking for exercise (unless I am on my treadmill—more about that later), but I can really get into walking to a destination.  There is just something that appeals to me about the adventure that accompanies a heel-toe rhythm, along a path you may or may not have traveled before, something about just progressing forward without knowing what is around the bend or over the hill.  I always seem to stumble across (no pun intended, but I am a klutz…) something unexpected.  It is as though the discovery is my gift for that day and even though I realize it is merely a matter of perception, those small moments, objects and accompanying realizations often lead to deeper discoveries.  I have come to think of each as a lens through which I focus on my life.  I used to assign my creative writing classes to go out and record everything they saw that was red and write a poem about it.  I am posting below one of my poems that resulted from this:

SUNDAY MORNING SEEING RED 

Unfurled umbrella

in the field beside the church.

 

Full blown, due east.

No Entrance.  Full metal tunnel

on the playground.

Metal inside.  Metal out.  Blue. 

No Parking. 

Do Not

Enter.

 

Green acorns underfoot.

Yellow plywood.  Golden ripe wood.

Blue graffiti on brown brick.

 

Buried Cable:  Before Digging

                        Call This Number.

Number the cars.  Number the

Taillights.  taillight.  taillight.

Diesel odor, taillight, taillight.  Trailing

one vibrant oblong leaf in the puddle near the

school.  One car going too fast,

one             “STOP”      showering splash.

 

One spinning

umbrella

in the field beside the church.

Full open.  Facing south.

No Entrance.

No Parking.

No end.

People often ask me what my poems mean.  And though I think this one is relatively accessible, here are just a few thoughts.  I think most readers would agree that the poem moves from mere observation into the realm of social and spiritual implication.  Not to be heavy handed in my explication, but “unfurled umbrella in the field beside the church” calls to mind and juxtaposes the ideas of naturalism and organized religion.  “Full metal tunnel” then brings in touches of industrialization ironically overshadowing the childlike qualities implied by the playground equipment, which is immediately followed by a set of rules, “No parking.  Do not enter.” 

Back to nature with the acorns, but not for long as wood becomes lumber, and not only lumber but plywood enhanced, or, depending on the reader’s  ideological slant, defaced, with graffiti.  Then there is digging, perhaps psychological analysis, interrupted, of course, then with the rational attempt to control the observation by counting the cars… which is then sidetracked by the multisensory assault which ends up causing me to focus on a single red leaf in a puddle.  Not long before the world imposes almost violently with a splash, which takes us back to the umbrella.  Notice that it really wants to be open.  It is after all so close to the church, but then the rules return to inhibit any spiritual progression.

Oh well, Napoleon Bonaparte said, "There is no such thing as an accident; it is fate misnamed."  But I prefer to live my life on the verge of not needing to know, and it doesn't really matter what I call that particular sensation.  

Oh yeah, and the part about the treadmill.  I simply like the sound, the little whump, whump, whump, and the way it pulls me gently into the future while I contemplate the present.  I like the way I can move without moving, think without thinking, and go nowhere while I safely leave my body.