On Taking a Bath in a Mountain Stream

Reaching down into the transparent pool, I feel the water, cool and pleasant, flow quietly over my hand. Lifting a cupped hand, I taste purity and record its clean smell. But stepping in and settling myself within its depth shocks my body into a new awareness of an old experience. It takes some getting use to.

My eye fastens on the bottom, an ever changing variation of beige, tan, brown, white and black, as the sun illuminates in shifting patterns through the constant ripples. Facing upstream, I push with my foot and hear the soft clunk of a dislodged rock strike another such world; the grate of sand and pebbles helped in their monumental task of reducing all to their small size. The sand scrapes along my leg and I realize that, at the pool's head, the boulder, over which water now roars in miniature cataract, cannot last such attacks. And now, disrupted, tiny, black leeches drift and fasten to me, but I brush them away, fearful and disgusted. Then other forms of microscopic life I try to identify -- unsuccessfully. (That one, I know, will grow two heads if you but split his one. But is he, then, twice as wise?) I've also kicked up leaves, old, black, and sodden, and dead twigs, and some fresh moss. Strange, how now the water tastes old and dead and fresh -- in fact, such subtlety of drink I've never known. Upstream must lie a host of things and at least one, a fish, rather ripe.

More curious to explore my world, I turn my attention to the bank. And once more, using my foot to lead the way, press into the muddy clay. The blue-black goo oozes up between my toes, and smells of death but reminds of life started long ago. Reaching further, I pick a sprig of mint, rough textured but strong and bitter-sweet to tongue and nose.

And now, the world is all around, wind brushing trees, aspen and pine, into a hushed symphony; the composition never complete, despite every addition of rose and lark, nettle and crow, cedar and eagle, or my pool. Then, submerged, water pouring through my hair, hurrying past my naked body, feeling I move with the stream and it with me, I know the stream is more than all these things.

And I step out, cleansed, refreshed in spirit.

So too, when dipping into some fine poem, I feel the words flow through my mind, coolly, pleasantly, quietly. I taste its purity and truth. But diving on into the depths shocks my mind into new experiences of old awarenesses. It takes some getting used to.

My mind fastens on the images, an endless variety of sights, sounds, smells, tastes and feelings, as the poet illuminates in me the shifting patterns of my mind. I push on and find words clashing with words, evoking from their double meanings and connotations thoughts and feelings I never knew before. I realize my first impressions can not hold. New ideas and emotions fasten to me. Some I brush away fearfully and with disgust. Others I try to identify, often unsuccessfully, to keep. I find a metaphor that brings new meanings to the fore -- and my mind is overpowered with subtlety of thought, overwhelmed as word on word, image after image washes over my soul. Tears may form, a smile break, sadness, fear, happiness, joy.

I move on to consider how this has happened: the poet chose a form, confined himself, but freed me. He used common words of common things, but made rarity. I read again in right order right words and once more am captivated -- finding still newer thoughts, deeper feelings, and the poem is all around, pulling me deeper, with no last depth to fathom.

And thus, my soul submerged, thoughts and feelings pouring through my mind, feeling as if I move with poem and poet, I know poetry is more than all these things.

And I step out, cleansed, refreshed in spirit.

Liberal and Conservative Minds

Ah, those liberals: they want to change everything, increase social spending, allow society's mores to erode, equalize wealth, restrict individual rights (smoking and guns), pamper everyone, and tax and spend.

Ah, those conservatives: they want to go back to yesterday, decrease benefits, maximize the wealth of the wealthy, impose their moral standards, increase the rights of the right, make everyone shape up, and decrease taxes and spend.

The above is just a vague, unfair capsules of differing viewpoints. My concern is not with viewpoints, but with minds, which may also be liberal or conservative. One with a liberal mind might have either liberal or conservative views, or both. However, the liberal mind is willing to consider new information, ideas, and views. This openness allows this person to change, to meet new problems with re-vamped plans, to act with a degree of flexibility, and to adjust viewpoints based on evidence.

On the other hand, the conservative mind is rigid. The viewpoint rarely changes as what is correct is already known. New evidence will be debunked in order to maintain the present beliefs and actions. And, yes, a conservative mind may have liberal ideas -- never changing ones.

Ralph Waldo Emerson expressed the liberal mind idea: A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. ... Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day.

We need more liberal thinkers who develop ideas and positions with a bit of flow, rather than individuals who work to maintain their constant viewpoints.

That Different Road

I recently had occasion to discuss Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken' with a group of non-native speaking English teachers. They had all studied the poem in the past, and many had taught it in their classes in other countries. Somehow, the focus shifted from the lines usually stressed: "and I -- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference." The focus ended up on a single word--"sigh" --from the lines:

'I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:'

So often, it seemed, 'all the difference' had meant how well the writer had done because of the choice. But in this discussion, the question arose: why a sigh? If the story is told with a sigh, was the outcome really all that good? Of course, it might have been a sigh of contentment, but a sigh still seems to negate 'all the difference.' Then someone wondered: if a person took one of two nearly equal, similar roads, would there be all that much difference to her or his life "ages and ages hence"? Then another teacher suggested that the writer should have struck out cross country if a truly 'different' life was desired; instead the road without the undergrowth was chosen, which would have been the easier route, perhaps.

The group was not unaware that Frost may have written the poem to chide a friend's lack of decision making, but they chose to follow the approach that what a piece of literature means is within the context of the readers' reaction at the time of reading. At any rate, we all came away with the feeling that perhaps we did not understand 'The Road Not Taken' as well as we thought, but maybe it is a better poem than we thought, as well.