The Layers
I
have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
— Stanley Kunitz from The
Collected Poems of Stanley Kunitz
--------------------
Stanley Kunitz was in his seventies when he wrote
this poem, and he still had many changes to traverse before he died at the age
of 100 in 2006. With great dignity, he speaks here of the losses he has known
and what it is that survives when all else is gone. Everything passes. Is it
sad? Is it a relief? Sometimes one, sometimes the other. Is there anything,
then, that abides? For Kunitz, there is “some principle of being” from which he
struggles not to stray. The enigmatic lines near the end of the poem –
Live in the layers,
Not in the litter
Not in the litter
came to him one night at the
end of a terrifying dream, a voice from out of a cloud speaking a riddle as
strange as any from the Delphic oracle of Greece. He woke immediately and wrote
down those lines. Soon afterward, the whole poem flowed from these two lines.
Warmly, Roger Housden
Warmly, Roger Housden
-------------
From Richard:
Daily be aware of your
guiding principles. Are they in the rear or in the front? Do they pull you forward or hold you back?
Is the liter of past actions
and events an attractor factor for this day's mental focus? Regrets,
recriminations, and could have beens?
Release yourself from this
bondage with your next breath. Perhaps
say to yourself in coordination with the breath cycle “Letting Go” --- with the inhale saying “Letting” and with
the exhale “Go”. Do this for the next 5-10 breaths. Then sit in silence for a
moment and feel the release.
Self perceived baggage from
the past is like having to carry around a large, heavy backpack. Every time you think of something of later
days with a negative view it is like putting another weighted object in that
already over stuffed, supper heavy pack. It is hard to breath carrying so much
weight.
Why not sit down for a moment and
unpack it. Leave some, or all, of it by the road now. And when you are ready,
stand up and renew your journey with a lighter load.
As Kuntiz writes in the poem,
come to live in the layers of the forward journey and not the liter of
the past.
