A few nights ago, my son called from college and read me a poem by Theodore Roethke about a bird, the Kitty Cat bird, who is taken to task by a wren. 'Why,' said the wren, 'you sing whatever comes to mind without any plan or reason. One moment you are one thing, then you are another. You have no place. How ridiculous you are!' On hearing this, the Kitty Cat Bird became depressed and when the cat came by with his jaws wide open, he leaped inside, ending his life.
My son took this to mean that we should not listen to society, but should rather follow our own path regardless. It was what the other students also understood, but I had him read it over the phone again. No, that was not what the poem was about, although there was that element in it. No, it was about finding oneself, of having a center, even if that center is shallowly defined. One cannot exist tossing from one thing to another - one's place in life becomes meaningless, and without meaning, it is not worth living. The poem, written in a form of a child's morality tale, is much, much bleaker than it first seems. When my son then told me that the poet was often institutionalized for bi-polar mental illness, it all made sense.
This simple poem makes one think even further, of what our "selves" truly are. Yesterday, for instance, I could not find some earplugs I had bought to use when running small machinery. I recalled carefully putting them somewhere, making sure I would not forget, but I could not recall where that was. This morning, I went to the bathroom and almost without thinking looked under the sink again, this time moving some towels that had been put there. The earplugs were there, and with their discovery, the memory of their place came rushing back. But of course, I had already known where they were - sometime during the night, the memory had come back to semi-consciousness and had me look where I had looked before, almost as an automaton.
During the night I had also had dreams of people I had never met and of feelings that were alien to me - as usual. On waking, these feelings quickly dissipated and I became who I always am - no Kitty Cat bird, I. But in sensing the dreams and in recovering the memory, it became obvious that this "me", this wren who knows his song so well, doesn't really know who he is. This "me" is only a picture in a frame, a film of oil on a deep sea. This is not conjecture - in dreams and memory I have proof that I do not understand the total me; that in fact, much of "me" is purposefully hidden by - by whom, and why? Again, this seems spacey and New Age, but it is not. It is a daily fact, for me and for nearly everyone else. It seems rather that a song is chosen by us - or for us - to glide through the day, but it is only a song. We are much, much more but we are not supposed to know.
Who is it that keeps us from knowing more of what lays within our internal ocean? Is it the true self? If so, why does it hide? It not only hides, but keeps us playing a part that is only an actor's part. It seems that to know that we are actors would ruin the play - as it would in "real" life. An actor is supposed to assume the part. Even as he might be a mild-mannered fellow in daily life, on the stage he might be the worst of villains, and to play the part well, he has to assume that mantle. But he is not that villain off-stage. It is, after all, only a play.
We often talk here of the inner self and greater possibilities, and the shallowness of apparent reality. It might often seem a philosophical game of 'maybe' and 'what if' but it is not. Hard-core materialist psychologists are aware of this, although they will not admit to a greater meaning behind it all, but that is the most obvious conclusion. Why play this game for no reason? Not only that, we know that this inner self, this master mind, is far smarter than we, our superficial selves, are. Again, why? This smarter self knows the meaning behind trauma and our neurotic tendencies and could end them in a moment. But it doesn't. This smarter self knows why we have this play, but refuses to give us a break before the play is ended. This smarter self could join with other smarter selves and solve all the problems of the world, but doesn't. And when we touch on it, when it gives us a peak of itself now and then, we understand that there IS a greater meaning for the play. For this we are turned towards religion or spirituality, to find this meaning that we already really know. And in this, we get a true glimpse at the purpose of the play - to understand through action what is always known.
There are many ideas behind the necessity of this, which seems so unnecessary to us when discussed. It is what we wish to find out. But it should become clear that this search is not a parlor game based on fantasies of spiritual knowledge. We have ample evidence in our own daily lives for this. And we want to know the answers. It is not enough to be like the wren and know its place in the act. It is also a waste to despair and jump into the cat's jaws. We have our clues and our guides, and it is our calling to find out who the real person is behind the actor on the stage, and the meaning of the play itself. FK
My son took this to mean that we should not listen to society, but should rather follow our own path regardless. It was what the other students also understood, but I had him read it over the phone again. No, that was not what the poem was about, although there was that element in it. No, it was about finding oneself, of having a center, even if that center is shallowly defined. One cannot exist tossing from one thing to another - one's place in life becomes meaningless, and without meaning, it is not worth living. The poem, written in a form of a child's morality tale, is much, much bleaker than it first seems. When my son then told me that the poet was often institutionalized for bi-polar mental illness, it all made sense.
This simple poem makes one think even further, of what our "selves" truly are. Yesterday, for instance, I could not find some earplugs I had bought to use when running small machinery. I recalled carefully putting them somewhere, making sure I would not forget, but I could not recall where that was. This morning, I went to the bathroom and almost without thinking looked under the sink again, this time moving some towels that had been put there. The earplugs were there, and with their discovery, the memory of their place came rushing back. But of course, I had already known where they were - sometime during the night, the memory had come back to semi-consciousness and had me look where I had looked before, almost as an automaton.
During the night I had also had dreams of people I had never met and of feelings that were alien to me - as usual. On waking, these feelings quickly dissipated and I became who I always am - no Kitty Cat bird, I. But in sensing the dreams and in recovering the memory, it became obvious that this "me", this wren who knows his song so well, doesn't really know who he is. This "me" is only a picture in a frame, a film of oil on a deep sea. This is not conjecture - in dreams and memory I have proof that I do not understand the total me; that in fact, much of "me" is purposefully hidden by - by whom, and why? Again, this seems spacey and New Age, but it is not. It is a daily fact, for me and for nearly everyone else. It seems rather that a song is chosen by us - or for us - to glide through the day, but it is only a song. We are much, much more but we are not supposed to know.
Who is it that keeps us from knowing more of what lays within our internal ocean? Is it the true self? If so, why does it hide? It not only hides, but keeps us playing a part that is only an actor's part. It seems that to know that we are actors would ruin the play - as it would in "real" life. An actor is supposed to assume the part. Even as he might be a mild-mannered fellow in daily life, on the stage he might be the worst of villains, and to play the part well, he has to assume that mantle. But he is not that villain off-stage. It is, after all, only a play.
We often talk here of the inner self and greater possibilities, and the shallowness of apparent reality. It might often seem a philosophical game of 'maybe' and 'what if' but it is not. Hard-core materialist psychologists are aware of this, although they will not admit to a greater meaning behind it all, but that is the most obvious conclusion. Why play this game for no reason? Not only that, we know that this inner self, this master mind, is far smarter than we, our superficial selves, are. Again, why? This smarter self knows the meaning behind trauma and our neurotic tendencies and could end them in a moment. But it doesn't. This smarter self knows why we have this play, but refuses to give us a break before the play is ended. This smarter self could join with other smarter selves and solve all the problems of the world, but doesn't. And when we touch on it, when it gives us a peak of itself now and then, we understand that there IS a greater meaning for the play. For this we are turned towards religion or spirituality, to find this meaning that we already really know. And in this, we get a true glimpse at the purpose of the play - to understand through action what is always known.
There are many ideas behind the necessity of this, which seems so unnecessary to us when discussed. It is what we wish to find out. But it should become clear that this search is not a parlor game based on fantasies of spiritual knowledge. We have ample evidence in our own daily lives for this. And we want to know the answers. It is not enough to be like the wren and know its place in the act. It is also a waste to despair and jump into the cat's jaws. We have our clues and our guides, and it is our calling to find out who the real person is behind the actor on the stage, and the meaning of the play itself. FK
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