Loneliness, the Goose in the Bottle

 There is a Zen koan that goes something like this: A woman puts an egg inside a bottle. It eventually turns into a gosling. The woman is delighted and feeds it the best whole grains she could obtain. As goslings are wont to do, it grew into a goose, a beautiful goose in a beautiful bottle. She wanted to give the goose its freedom; she wanted to see it swimming serenely in a nearby pond. She was determined to free it, but the goose had grown too big.  She didn’t want to shatter the bottle, fearing that its shards would harm the lovely bird. How can a full-grown goose pass through the neck of a bottle? How did she get it out? 

We will attempt to solve this koan, after we turn our attention to a black dove that perches on sad shoulders and broods and broods and broods, Loneliness.

The writer, Thomas Wolfe, once wrote, “The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence.”

This means that if you’re lonely sometimes, you’re in good company, namely with every other human being on the planet.

Just what is loneliness? I came across a good definition on the internet: “Loneliness is an unpleasant emotion in response to perceived isolation.”  That one can feel lonely in crowds or in company illustrates the importance of the qualifying adjective, perceived.

During a scorching summer day, if you remain alone in an unairconditioned apartment, you are likely to feel hot. During a cold winter day, if you remain alone in an overheated apartment, you are likely to feel hot as well. In each case, the ambient temperature of the room might be very different, yet you feel hot in both instances. In addition, if you’re busy reading or ‘lost’ in pleasant conversation, you might forget for a while your body’s discomfort. Within a certain range of temperature, feeling hot is a subjective phenomenon. Within a certain range of isolation, feeling lonely is subjective as well.

As heat increases, you become more and more uncomfortable; if it continues to increase, you die. Similarly, if loneliness increases, discomfort increases; if it continues to worsen, it is no longer loneliness—the ‘unpleasant emotion’ is now despair, which at the very least can shorten one’s life and at the very worst can drive one to suicide.

Which would you prefer, to visit Venus where the surface temperature is 900 degrees Fahrenheit, or visit Pluto where the surface temperature hovers around 400 degrees below? In either case, your visit would be extremely short. Why not remain on Earth instead? With air conditioning and central heating, one can remain comfortable during the milder temperature fluctuations of our home planet; with meaningful work and social connections, one can survive the metaphorical Pluto of loneliness as well.

2.

Let us imagine a color-scheme totem, with pitch black at the bottom, followed by gray, leading eventually to bright, vibrant colors at the top. The pitch black at the bottom represents despair, hopelessness, death. Just above this black hole is the gray area of loneliness. A person whose emotional core is at this level feels bad, but not as bad as the person would feel if he or she sinks into the abyss below. It is a gray area; if he is lucky or rises with the help, say, of friends, he enters the next level, Solitude. Marilynne Robinson wrote that solitude is the balm of loneliness; I agree with her. I imagine this level as white, that is, colorless, for during solitude one forgets the trouble below and the joys above. One forgets everything except for the task in hand. I have experienced days at the start of which I felt quite lonely, but after a while, lost in writing, reading, or whatever, I forget all about myself and the passage of time. I call it a ‘white’ feeling, since one leaves both positive and negative feelings behind, while one concentrates on the task at hand. One is alone during this time, but one isn’t lonely, having been subsumed into whatever has demanded one’s complete attention.  This is the gift of solitude. On good days, it is fairly easy to pass from the realm of loneliness into solitude; it is very difficult, however, often impossible, to pass from the ‘black hole’ at the bottom, to scurry through loneliness, and become happily lost in solitude. At the bottom, one can’t see where one’s going; it is very difficult, sometimes impossible, to find the stairs that lead to the upper levels.

(How does one exit hell? Trying to ‘pull oneself up by one’s bootstraps’ more likely than not will prove to be futile. One needs a guide, sometimes a guru, sometimes an imagined guide, God, sometimes a pill.  A good, wise friend is best. However, if you find a false friend, one who is blind as you, he will lead you in circles where you might wander-waste a lifetime. Perhaps he might make you happy for a while; perhaps he might give you the illusion that you have found a clearing in a very dark forest. It is an illusion, however; you’re still in hell; your wan face temporarily lit by the will o’ the wisp of a cult.)

 3.

Shakespeare, the greatest writer who ever lived, provides one with a good deal of aesthetic enjoyment—his characterizations have remained unrivaled for four hundred years—and has a lot to teach us as well.

I will now provide a brief quote, pertinent to our discussion, which is spoken by Constance, the wife of the deceased Richard the Lionhearted’s son, Geoffrey. She claims the throne for her son, Arthur, Richard’s grandson. King John, the wily brother of Richard, rejects her claim and favors—you guessed it—himself. It turns out that the tide of war has swept Arthur from Constance’s arms into the hands of the enemy, King John. Constance—who seems to be at least as interested in power as in the welfare of her son—becomes hysterical; she knows that Arthur will be a threat to John as long as the former lives. In her wild lament, Constance speaks the following lines:

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud,

For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.

To me and to the state of my great grief

Let Kings assemble. For my grief’s so great

That no supporter but the huge firm earth

Can hold it up.

                                 -- King John, 2.2, lines 66-70

 

She’s onto something here, although she doesn’t know it. I dare say that most in the audiences of King John over the past 400 years haven’t picked up the meaning of these lines, either. If you haven’t as well, you soon shall.

First of all, for our purposes, we may change the word “grief” in the quote wherever it occurs, to 'loneliness' without changing the meaning much. For loneliness is a form of grief and certainly can make ‘his owner’ stoop. (Not every stoop, especially among the young, is caused by a bad back.) Constance goes on to say that her problem is so great that only ‘the huge firm earth’ can support it. She doesn’t know how right she is.

For an explication, we now turn to a quote by the remarkable guru, Ramana Maharshi, a true avatar of wisdom,  of nonduality:

Take, for instance, the figure in a gopuram (temple tower) where it is made to appear to bear the burden of the tower on its shoulders. Its posture and look are a picture of great strain while bearing the very heavy burden of the tower. But think. The tower is built upon the earth and rests on its foundations. The figure (like Atlas bearing the earth) is part of the tower, but is made to look as if it bore the tower. Is it not funny?…

Constance is part of the cosmos, yet imagines herself separate from it. Her sorrows are ‘merely’ chemicals zapping from neuron to neuron in her Atlas-burdened brain. (Modern research has cast considerable doubt on one of the core beliefs of imagined separation, free will.)

The sense of a separate self, which is indeed very strong, is merely a trick of evolution. Without it, there would be no art, politics, culture—or all-out war. (There of course would be no loneliness either.)

The sense of a separate self is, however, ultimately an illusion. For instance, there is no element in the human body that is not found in nature. There are centers in the brain for vision, hearing, emotion, etc. but there is no place where the self is located. (Leonardo da Vinci thought the soul resided in the pineal gland,  the producer of melanin. Just as wrong as da Vinci was in this regard, despite amazing scientific progress, many of us still believe a soul or self  resides within us.)

Constance is like a paper boat floating in the sea, imagining an approaching ripple is a tsunami with her name on it. Isn’t it time for the many Constances of the world to realize that the sea doesn’t contain their names written on water?

4. Conclusion

Thomas Wolfe was wrong; we have seen that loneliness is not an inevitable part of existence. It is simply one of the troubles of a part that imagines itself to be a whole.

What about the goose in the bottle? Imagine the goose to be the consciousness of separation; imagine the body to be the bottle. The self might be the bottle; the Self, however, is not. 

How did the woman get the goose out of the bottle?  By realizing that the self and the Self are one and the same. The Self is never limited to the confines of a bottle! 

And just what is the Self? Cosmic consciousness; satcitananda; wisdom, consciousness, bliss.

There, it is out.

Why Fear?

Two weeks ago, I received a daunting diagnosis--the big C. It is confined to the prostate, which is good; it is, however, fairly undifferentiated, which is bad. I am told I'm at a high risk for complications as well. Another memento mori, another reminder that the inevitable isn't far off.

At my age, (soon to be 76), mementos mori often begin to pile up. (In my case, diabetes, glaucoma, A.M.D. and a heart condition.) Yet for the elderly, the skull becoming manifest under the skin tends not to cause panic--by the time one reaches one's seventies, one has encountered so many deaths of loved ones and friends that one (almost) gets used to it. In other words, we take our approaching cessation of breath in stride. (The stride might be syncopated, yet if we limp, it is more likely due to a physiological, age-related decrease in mobility, rather than to a psychological mope.) 

A sounder mind in a frailer body--most Romans didn't live long enough to develop such an ideal view of old age; I, however, have.

2.

Meditation has been a habit with me for a long time. I have not always meditated regularly, but most days, especially now that I'm older, do not pass without at least one twenty minute session. I have always meditated while sitting on the floor; at present, I sit on a beautiful hand-made Muslim prayer rug which I bought in Istanbul years ago. On a little wooden table, which a friend recently made for me, I have placed a gilded statue of Buddha, a fairly recent gift from another friend. I sit before it at least once a day, doing my best to concentrate on my breath, while reciting various mantras.

Buddha's left hand points to the Earth, as witness to his Enlightenment; he has transcended samsara, the wheel of birth and death, which earthly things represent. I'd like to call your attention to his right hand, the palm of which is extended to the onlooker. This is the classic Abhaya mudra, the hand gesture which designates 'No Fear.' This symbolic hand gesture has been used in Hinduism since at least the sixth century. (The famous 10th century Chola dynasty bronzes depicting Shiva Nataraja, Shiva performing the Cosmic Dance, has Shiva using the 'No Fear' gesture with his lower right hand.)

During a meditation session, shortly after my diagnosis, I seemed to hear an inner voice repeating, Do Not Be Afraid, while I stared at Buddha's Abhaya Mudra. It reminded me of the tonic drone of South Indian music, usually played on the tambura throughout a piece; if you would prefer a Western example, it reminded me of the prolonged E flat at the beginning of Wagner's Rheingold. Both represent the foundational tone of creation, at least as far as human consciousness is concerned. 

Do you mean, Inner Voice, that, while approaching death--and all of us, of course, have been approaching death since birth--I shouldn't be afraid? That I shouldn't fear the dissolution of this self which has been me for so long? Do you mean, Inner Voice, that I shouldn't fear oblivion, which begins with the last breath of personhood and lasts forever? Do you mean I shouldn't fear death, the boundary beyond which there is no experience of all the wonderful--and awful--things to come?  Do you mean I shouldn't fear the unbearable loss of loved ones and friends and the ineffable conscious experience of nature? Well, basically, Yes. (By the way, you have no choice.)

3. Why Fear? The example of Sai Baba

Sai Baba, who suddenly appeared in the town of Shirdi in the nineteenth century, was a prominent embodiment of the Hindu teaching of Advaita Vedanta, nonduality, with which science is in basic accord. He remained in Shirdi, living an ascetic life in an abandoned mosque until his death in 1918. Although scorned at first, he has since received a large international following, including temples in India and elsewhere, dedicated to him. 

Sai Baba  taught his disciples to live an ordinary family life--and a moral one.  "Love your neighbor as yourself," was one of his basic messages, although he didn't use those exact words. 

Odd for an Indian guru then, and especially now, he accepted, without favoritism,  Muslim as well as Hindu followers. Although he was firmly against dogmatism and petty behavior, he saw truth behind both religions and never advocated one over the other. He celebrated festivals of both communities. In this respect, he provides a shining example, especially for these divisive times. 

In Hinduism, there are two paths. The path of bhakti, devotion, and that of jnana, wisdom. This is a very dangerous dichotomy, since many are devoted to a good guru, yet do not put his teachings into practice Only when devotion is mixed with right action is a just life possible. Far too many devote themselves, nay, worship Sai Baba while still living lives of greed, hate, and delusion. They want to be relieved of their burdens--which most of us, especially the elderly, so well know, can be very heavy indeed--without having to change their vain ways. They want miracles, not wisdom.

Sai Baba played along with all this in some respects, claiming powers that no mortal can ever have. One of his most famous sayings is "Why Fear, When I am Here," words which are etched over altars in Sai Baba temples. 

One of my favorite sayings of his is "If somebody wants any money from you and you are inclined not to give, do not give, but do not bark at him like a dog." More practical than Jesus's dictum of turning the other cheek, this saying indicates that Baba knew that earthly life and greed, hate, and delusion are unfortunately intertwined; at the very least, he seems to be saying, we should be civil to one another. This quote which seems to support the status quo must be put in context with other sayings that advocate that one should work hard to relieve the burdens of the poor.

Baba also said, "My mortal remains shall speak from my tomb. If you seek my help, it shall be given to you. There shall be no want in the house of my devotee." This, for me at least, is Spiritual Fake News.

For me, Rationality must keep guard and frisk Religion as it attempts to enter the inner sanctum, removing all irrational baggage. Any package marked 'Wishful Thinking' is not allowed entry. Religion will be more than half naked after this shake down is over, but, I think, love and wisdom will remain. And that is more than enough.

4. Miracles

I, too, believe in miracles, but not of the Baba-type. I believe that while the universe supports us--after all, we evolved in it--it is completely indifferent to human needs. What kind of miracles are left? Impersonal ones.

That matter evolved into the feeling of separation, the miracle of consciousness, remains inexplicable. Why there is something rather than nothing remains inexplicable as well. There are many such examples. The most important one is that understanding the totality of nature will remain totally beyond us. We can only apprehend reality according to our senses, including the one of thought, which is a sixth sense in the Eastern tradition. One can never completely know what is out there and what is in us.

I call these 'negative miracles' to contrast them with the personal miracles many believe in.  Many religious people seek miracles from a personal God. They want an omnipotent supernatural being who loves them and will cure their ills. Unfortunately for them, the universe supplies no such relief.

Is this view of life cold? Well, the universe, albeit fascinating, is cold. Love of others and of ourselves, however, is more than enough to keep us warm.

If we are to be truly happy, we must let wisdom teach us that we are not the center of the universe. If we are to be truly serene, we must let wisdom teach us that all things must come to an end. We must let love teach us that we must give up vain ways and think of others.  In addition, we must deeply appreciate the impersonal gift of life, and do our very best to keep healthy and fit while it is ours.

Who practices these things sincerely experiences bliss. At least for a while.

Thomas Chatterton, Thomas Chatterton Williams, Serge Gainsbourg and, last not least, What's in a Name?

 1. Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770)

Thomas Chatterton is one of the most famous obscure poets who ever lived. His work is obscure for two reasons: Although he worked at a Schubertian pace, he died several months before his eighteenth birthday; no one, not even Catullus, died that young and left a major body of work behind. The second reason for his obscurity is that he wrote mostly in a pseudo-archaic style; he attributed many of his poems to the fictive Thomas Rowley, whom Chatterton claimed to have been a fifteenth century poet. Many contemporaries believed him, but, like Ossian, a would-be Scots epic from ancient times, which later was proven to have come from the contemporary pen of James MacPherson, Thomas Rowley's work turned out to be a forgery as well.

That Chatterton was a genius, of that there is no doubt. Born into excruciating poverty, (his father died before he was born), Chatterton became a voracious reader and writer, producing significant poetry from the age of eleven on. He moved to London, shortly before his death; he thought he would soon be making a living as a poet, which was hard in those days, albeit much harder now. His work was accepted everywhere, but the payment he received provided him with much less than a living wage. The editors were exploitive, to say the least. (One thinks of the title of Joyce's collection of poems, written when Joyce was in his thirties, Pomes Penyeach. In contrast to Chatterton, however, the Irish novelist was born into a middle-class family. The title has a metaphorical meaning, perhaps "the best things in life are free." He certainly wasn't referring to what he thought his poems were worth!) 

Chatterton was starving. Eventually, he refused to endure the twin poisons of  obscurity and penury any longer; he swallowed arsenic and died, still a teenager. 

It was his suicide that made him famous. It helped usher in the age of Romanticism. His dis-ease, brought about by a cruel world that ignored him, was apparently as effective in establishing his Romantic legacy as the Romantic disease, consumption,  tuberculosis.  (At first, consumption was thought to have an emotional etiology; for instance, Byron attributed the cause of Keats's demise to bad reviews. About a century later, however, consumption proved to be caused by a relentless and very un-Romantic microorganism).

Here is an excerpt form one of Chatterton's poems:

Comme, whythe accorne-coppe and thorne,

Dryane me hartys blodde awaie;

Lyfe and all ytes goode I scorne,

Daunce by nete, or feaste by daie.

Mi love ys dedde,

Gone to his death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

This is from a poem of many stanzas entitled, Mynstrelles Songe. This excerpt indicates that the fictive Thomas Rowley knew his Shakespeare; it also indicates that the flesh-and-blood Chatterton had an excellent ear.

These days few read Chatterton's poems.  This is due to the lamentable fact that very few read poetry at all, much less eighteenth century verse; in addition, as previously mentioned, Chatterton's attempt at antiquated English provides a double remove.

2. A Diversion

I couldn't resist including at this point a YouTube clip of a delightful song--even though it's about suicide--by Serge Gainsbourg, entitled "Chatterton."  Gainsbourg, 1928-1991, was the French Bob Dylan, who excelled as a lyricist  as well as a composer--a rare combination, Bob Dylan and Cole Porter being two outstanding examples. Here is my translation of the first verse of the song:

Chatterton committed suicide;

Hannibal committed suicide;

Demosthenes committed suicide;

Nietzsche went mad;

As for me (Whoo!)

As for me,

Things aren't going very well anymore.

A song about suicide in an upbeat major key! Only the French can do something like this. Contrast it to the excruciating pathos of Schubert's marvelous Winterreise. For me, Gainsbourg's deliberate avoidance of cloying sorrow here makes the song all the more poignant. The ridiculous whoop after the first "as for me" is a stroke of genius; it lets off steam just at the right time, preventing a descent into hyper-pathos. It is also crazy. The protagonist is perhaps not serious about suicide at all; perhaps he is merely a vain (young?) man, feeling sorry for himself. Perhaps he will patch things up with his girlfriend and feel just fine the next day. Perhaps his depression is a passing phenomenon. Perhaps not. The juxtaposition of historical tragedy with an ambiguous contemporary confession makes the song, for me at least, outstanding. When I first heard it--especially that whoo!-- I laughed out loud.

3. What's in a Name

I was inspired to write this little desultory essay after reading "Name Stakes,"  (Harper's Magazine, June 2021), by the brilliant African-American writer, Thomas Chatterton Williams. About to become a father for the second time, Williams pondered over what to name his son, and wondered why he, the author, had been named Thomas Chatterton Williams, an odd name for an African American, to be sure. In addition to the fact that the name has a mellifluous ring to it; in addition to the fact that the middle name differentiated Williams from the countless Thomas Williamses in every urban phone directory of the country, the author's father justified the name with the following words: "My feeling became not to honor rulers and elites, but those who were locked out by them." He realized that his son, who would grow up as an African American in Newark, New Jersey, would face daunting hurdles. (His chances of success reminded me of the fact that only one out of a hundred crabs reach successful adulthood. Many, barely hatched, are swept out to sea.) Yet Thomas Chatterton Williams has proven that flourishing in an indifferent world is possible--not for everyone, alas!--being gifted like his namesake certainly helped. 

Chatterton Williams travels to London to trace the story behind his name. He sees the famous painting by Henry Wallis, a fascinating depiction  of the suicide of the "Kurt Cobain of Bristol," which hangs rather inconspicuously in the Tate Gallery. 

Williams quotes an immortal couplet from Chatterton's African Eclogues: "The pale children of the feeble sun, who/ in search of gold, through every climate run." (Well, that greedy band, with increasing members of 'dark children of the brawny sun' is still running strong, isn't it?)

The author's father is apparently quite intelligent and obviously carefully selected his son's name. I would like to contrast him with members of my own family and my experience as a doctor in Baltimore, Maryland.

My brother and I were the first in the immediate family to have gone to college. The only one in the family who had read some books--he was rather fond of Dickens--was my father, who never graduated from high school. Mentally ill, suffering from alcoholism and severe depression, he had no surplus attention to carefully select our names. The choice of my name, Thomas, seems to have been quite arbitrary; there are no Thomases in our family tree. My middle name, Andrew, seems to have been arbitrarily chosen as well. My brother's name is Robert Hammond Dorsett, 'Hammond' was my mother's maiden name. I suspect she gave him that middle name to honor her rather obstreperous father. (In true upper-class Protestant tradition, he would have been named 'Hammond Dorsett'--we, of course, were--if we had worked a little harder--of the working-class.)

My father received his middle name, Fulton, after Robert Fulton, the inventor of the steamboat.  (No trace of success ever accompanied his namesake, alas!)

After I had become a doctor, I practiced as a pediatrician in Baltimore, and came across many inventive names in the nursery. African Americans, like the Chinese, tend to give their children distinctive names, e.g. Savion Glover and Simemem Etute. At one time, I was about to suggest that a nurse be available to help with spelling, e.g. 'Xavier' was often misspelled, and thus pronounced as it was written, 'X-zavier."

When I was in medical school in Newark, I encountered a man, dying of cirrhosis at age 29, with the meanest first name of all: what decent parent would ever name their ebony-hued son 'Blondie?' No wonder he had become an alcoholic.

I also heard of a man who had named his twins, Syphilis and Gonorrhea. There should be a law. (In Germany, there is.)

I will close with the name of a patient whom I treated at a Johns Hopkins clinic. I looked at the name on the chart. When he was in my office, I told him his name, Cire, meant 'wax' in French. He looked at me quizzically. It's pronounced "Kai-Rhee," he told me. The young man was apparently named after a famous basketball player--O where was that fictive nurse from the nursery?

"A rose by any other name smells as sweet"--Shakespeare was perhaps only partially right. What if the rose's name were Stinko? Wouldn't this name negatively influence one's would-be rosy olfactory perception?

Named after nobody, I sometimes feel like one of those crabs that didn't survive. Yet I did survive. And even if my name had been, say, Aloysius, I am (fairly) confident that I would still (mostly) be as I am today: very very grateful to be alive.