Time

Time has a different meaning for the lone sailor. Without the bustle of the other and his busy business, the clock can become another ornament on the desk, rather than ones keeper. When one has been days alone, what are hours? And when one has been months alone, what are days?

Isn't it strange how the texture of time and our temporal reality is influenced by our state of mind. A tedious, boring task can take 'forever' - whereas, 'time flies when you're having fun.' In reality, of course, in hard physical reality (i.e. the earth's passage around the sun) neither of the foregoing statements are correct. However, from the subjective point of our personal reality, both statements are abundantly true. After all, life for each of us will only ever be as it seems to us.

Many philosophers suppose that time is a strictly physical property, having no meaning for the spirit - many psychoanalysts believe that this is true of the unconscious as well. So, might the differences in our perceived relationship with time be a function of our spiritual selves as much as our cognitive selves? Of course many cognitive psychologists will talk about perception of time as a combination of 'state' and 'thought operations.' But let's not go there - I have long since grown bored with arguing the toss with our cognitive behavioural brethren. And besides, they seem to do quite a good job of this among themselves.

I have always been drawn to the zen notion that time does not actually exist - just the present moment. And, of course, the experience of zen practice for each person is an entirely subjective thing, but many have mentioned to me their profound sense that the moment is not just one of many moments - rather, it is a thing by itself, moving with them, sort of. I too have experienced this sense, and it is difficult to place into language. However, if my sense of the moment is anywhere near correct, that would mean that time does not truly exist. And the zen notion of being in the moment is a matter of present awareness (as they often call it) rather than focusing ones attention on a specific point along a continuum (of moments).

I do not claim to be a zen teacher or anything of the sort, just a traveler on the seas, like many others. But, for me, and for each one of us, it seems a pity not to strive for a state of present awareness -- the moment, the now, is all we can ever have. It is our only true possession.

And in it we may find the wisdom to answer all of our questions.

Little comforts

As the storm clouds gather outside, my little vessel struggles her way through yet another dark night of the soul. You have never felt truly alone, I think, until you have spent a night by yourself far out at sea. The wireless gives a little cheer sometimes.

True isolation certainly gives you ample opportunity to get to know yourself a little better, and to understand the human need for companionship. We are all alone really - yet the comforting presence of others can help us on our voyage through life. Even in death, the ultimate solo act, we cling to those around us for comfort as the darkness approaches.

At sea at night, it can be most heartening to see the lights of another ship in the distance - even if you never exchange so much as a word. By times I have found myself given over to fancy, imagining who might be on board such a vessel and what they might be thinking as they look out at my little light. You see, even the imagined companion can give solace.

Sartre said 'hell is the other.' He was probably correct, as far as it goes. But what is the other, if not ourselves? Ourselves, looking across the ocean, wondering what this alien creature might be like -- this creature who has shared little of what we have experienced and thought. The hell of the other is the hell of our need for him. The comfort of the other is the warm blanket of human experience -- loss, lack, fear. And joy -- definitely sometimes joy.

In a way we are all like little boats, bobbing in the rough waters of life, listening to the wireless of our inner selves, looking out for the lights of the other boats passing with us through the storm.

My Hero...

Since my last post I've been thinking about greatness. True greatness. My hero has always been Humphrey Bogart - a true gent of the old school. He is remembered as a great action hero, a chess player and a romantic idol. In a hundred years from now, people will still imagine Bogey when someone says 'Private Eye.'

But what always impressed me most about him was his concern for others - he always noticed when someone was being excluded from the group and tried to involve them. His love for Lauren Bacall was true and lasting. He was a touch of class, personally and professionally.

If you would like to know more about Bogart, read 'Take It And Like It,' a very good biography. The title comes from The Maltese Falcon - Bogart strikes Peter Lorre, and Lorre says 'You hit me.' Bogart replies: 'When you're slapped, you'll take it and like it.' Words to live one's life by, some might say.

A Hearty Cheer For The Mediocre

Accompanied by the gentle lapping of the sea and the harping scream of a gull (sheltering 'neath my little lifeboat) I have just heard one of those soap-stars singing on the radio. Isn't it strange that those who utterly fail to excel in one field, yet somehow find success, tend to insist on extending their reach into other domains - and always do a rotten job of it?

Soap opera actors branching out into pop music is a good example. Or Arnold - rotten actor, poor govenor. Or any of those people on reality TV shows doing anything. Ever.

It seems that being famous is all that matters. Not skill, talent or ability. Indeed, the careers that those of fame but little talent enjoy might not be possible for one with true ability. Those who excel seem to stick to their game. I don't recall Jude Law or Gene Hackman releasing pop records. Ok, Telly Savalas did release a record or two - but he was kinda good...and perhaps enough of an exception to prove the rule.

Sometimes in the darkest recesses of the night, lying in my little bunk, many miles away from shore I get an overwhelming sense of peace and happiness. It is usually at a moment when I have stopped thinking and begun listening. To the silence, and what passes beneath the silence.
It is a strange thought that our most blissful moments occur when we put away the stuff of life - thoughts, words and actions. And as years go by - for I am by now a very ancient mariner - I tend to think more and more about the nature of truth. Our personal truth - the wisdom that lies in all of us, the wisdom (and compassion) that flows through us and yearns to be heard and felt.

If you have never experienced this, I urge you to stop reading for a bit and close your eyes. Then think of nothing at all -- takes a bit of getting used to, that. Maybe listen to your breathing, each breath being a fascinating and new event for you to experience. Let thoughts flow away and your truth will emerge. Trust me, I know.

The other aspect of this is the lengths many people go to in avoiding this experience of their authentic selves. Take politicians, for example. Bush, Blair et al. They tell thier lies, twist the truth and use language to paper over atrocity after atrocity. What must it be like for them in the small hours? How desperatley must they struggle against the truths within them, truths which yearn to be heard. I suspect they think constantly. And talk. And 'keep busy' - otherwise they would have to confront themselves. Imagine how disgusted their true selves would be when faced with their shabby antics.

I wonder what would happen if more people listened, really listened to their innate wisdom. Would we have a better world, free from greed? Would we have a world where children don't die for want of basic nutrition, whilst the wealthy nations stockpile (or, worse, dump) millions of tonnes of food each year?

Or is it, as some claim, our nature to be aggressive and ruthless? I do not think so - rather, I believe that the latter are habits. Habits are like rules - they are there to be broken.