Window sunrise: A reflection
Another reality
A quick note to you, dear reader. When I first launched the paid subscription option in November 2023, I decided to place all Poems and Reflections older than 6 months behind the paywall. More recently, that felt like a mistake to me, so I have unlocked and will be keeping all Poems and Reflections unlocked in the archive, for both free and paid subscribers alike.
Spoken rendition of “Window sunrise”.
This poem’s first draft was entirely written on a frigid Tuesday morning in January after a small snowfall that fell the night prior. School was cancelled for the kids so the house was quiet longer then a typical week day morning. I was writing on the couch (not my usual spot as I prefer to write at a desk or table) and bundled in blankets with a fire going and the pocket doors to the living room closed in an attempt to heat up that one room. The dog was sleeping on the couch beside me and as I was writing I watched the sky move through the dawn palate of colors and the sun rise over the horizon.
A horizon view is a precious view, especially if it is a view from where you live. I live in a suburban/urban transitional area, so most people in my area of town do not have this view. Because my house sits towards the top of a small hill, I am fortunate to have a small stretch of horizon that can be viewed through the bare trees from the living room window in winter months. During January, when the sun remains low all day long, the sun comes up right in that spot. As we move into spring, the sunrise shifts farther north on the eastern horizon and is blocked by various neighbor’s houses. But back to the poem…
This poem is one that I consider a gift from somewhere else. It was constructed from lines that I wrote without much effort or thought as to where the poem was going or what was going to sit beneath it. These gifts come to each of us, but I am learning they come more frequently when one consistently scratches the creative itch, even when what comes out on a typical day is not what one hoped for. Editing occurred over the next few days and was quite minimal. One line changed slightly (to frame the bare entanglement of limbs was changed to to frame the entanglement of empty limbs), and the rest of the editing only occurred in the line and stanza breaks.
Themes
When I try to describe what makes a poem a “good” poem, what I usually land on is an aspect of spaciousness. It may be space in the words, it may be what the poem does not say, or it may be somewhere the poem points, but it allows a reader to find themselves in the poem or hear a message that feels crafted for them from the poem. A poem that is strictly prescriptive or gives a narrow punchline will usually fall flat. The message may be honest, meaningful or true, but it will fail to inspire feeling. When there is something that is discovered, that is when the words grip.
Many great poems also seem to be a plain description of something without any overt meaning or message, such as a room, a lover, a tree, or a god-awful meeting. This is interesting as a photo, a sketch or a painting seems like the more accurate way to represent what the thing is. So why use a poem for this task? It comes back to openness. A description is just a description, but the poet takes the description and uses it to create a visual in a way that goes beyond a photo by placing the reader directly into the object being described. Once the reader arrives in the setting, what that place does for the reader is highly personalized.
This poem attempts to be just that, a piece that is descriptive, with no real story and no overt message, just a short window of time that meant something to me with plenty of space for you to also see yourself in this room, having this experience, but finding your own meaning in it.
There are two lines and two themes that stand out to me when I read this piece.
writing on lined paper clouds.
The natural world we inhabit has a lot to say, including words that we need to hear that do not originate in our habitual mind. In moments where we inhabit stillness, we are poised to hear these words of love. For me, meditation, walking in nature, and writing are places where I most easily touch this stillness. I was recently introduced to a more active listening process through Elizabeth Gilbert’s Letters From Love, a process of open consciousness writing from yourself to yourself that certainly falls into this camp. This voice can show up in a myriad of places and each of us can name methods that we are more inclined to pursue. The key is to become attuned to hearing when it speaks and what it has to say.
When I talk about this world speaking, it is important to understand that what is said is most often not said in words. It may just be a feeling or a presence that says something deeply to you. Once that arrives, there is value in taking what this place is saying and working to interpret it into words to spur a change in the way that we habitually think and speak to ourselves. In a way, we participate by holding the pen that writes on the lined paper clouds.
and every conception I have.
Everything we experience has a layer of our own story that sits on top of it. Every description in this poem is a way of taking some sort of sensory data and telling a story about it. There is peace in the room because an emotion arose that I have assigned a pleasant state of being to. The room is only a room because that is the word we have assigned to an enclosed space, but look closer and it’s just walls, ceiling, and roof, and look closer and the wall is really a sheet of drywall, and so on. The idea of a sunrise only happens based on one’s relative position on the earth and the fact that the earth is spinning.
This line takes the concepts that are written and attempts to move it back into the purity that sits behind the stories we place onto experiences and things. I found this poem accomplished that quite effectively and I think it has to do with the physical direction of the poem, which feels like a meditative “pointing out instruction” that some traditions use. It begins with a feeling of an inside space, then the gaze is moved outside all the way to the sun, which then turns back to face the reader, and travels back to them through the trees, through a window and right into who they are.
These “pointing out” instructions are an attempt to help one break through concepts to a place of pure consciousness, emptiness, or void. Trying to describe this place is quite confusing, and often leads to frustration. Words that we build around it never fully succeed, which is the whole point. It is something to be experienced and lived from. The conventional reality we are all immersed in is knowing that I am here, and you are there, and there is seperation and otherness between us and everything else. This other reality is another type of reality that exists alongside our conventional reality, one of connection, of non-separation, and of a beautiful emptiness that is the source of all things.
It really is gibberish unless it is experienced. I personally do intentional practices to go to this place, and I know many of you also have your own ways. However, even without practicing intentionally, many of us have stumbled upon this at various points in our lives. I think back to some early experiences that I would put in this category. I remember being on the summit of a mountain in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado as an 8 or 10 year old and looking out into the world and feeling completely absorbed in everything I could see, almost as if I did not exist. Then, five years later or so I remember being in the recovery period from a back injury. I had been in consistent pain that ebbed and flowed for a few months, and had a spontaneous experience in a particularly painful moment where the pain was still very present and quite intense, but the hurting was gone, and realizing there was something I could do in my mind that changed the suffering to just another feeling like any other feeling.
If you’re interested in exploring these concepts and do not know where to start, I would recommend a method called “The Headless Way” that was created by philosopher Douglas Harding. It is a method that points to this void without much sectarian/religious talk. You could start with the book “On Having No Head” (this book does carry a Zen slant), or work your way through a series on this concept that Richard Lang leads on the Waking Up app.
Three short thoughts as a way to close for today.
First, I do not know what this poem did for you, and I am afraid this reflection became quite esoteric. I would love to hear your experience and dialogue in the comments. What struck you in this piece, what experiences have you had that brought you into the place I attempted to describe, and what intentional practices do you have that overlap? Have you ever had an unprompted experience of silence or unity?
Second, a reminder for us all. As artists, writers, workers, and beings, it is important to remember we can do things for no other purpose than to do them for you. The ideas of emptiness I describe in this poem and the feeling that this poem brought to me are precious to me, but I hope that you find your own preciousness in what you choose to read, view, and create. There is not a wrong way to read a poem or view a piece of art. Just place yourself into the middle of it, and let what will be, be.
Finally, for those of you in the Memory community, this will be the poem we sit with starting February 11. It will be the first time we have used one of my personal poems in Memory. It feels vulnerable for me to believe that there could be enough value in this piece to ask others to memorize it, but again, there is something deep to this piece that I am experiencing, and I hope it will be a benefit for you. If you are not yet part of the Memory community, consider joining us!
May you live with ease.
Brian
If you missed the “A Poem” post of Window sunrise, I hope you will read and enjoy! You can find it here.
Window sunrise
Fire in the hearth
and peace in the room.
Gaze through the south facing window
pointed just east enough
to frame the entanglement of empty limbs...
Ah so much feeling in this one, Brian! Our friend, Mary Oliver said: “Attention without feeling is only a report.” She would appreciate, as I do, the way you’re writing from *inside* the experience and not merely making a poem about it. It’s generous of you to open the Memory space up to all readers. May it bring many new eyes to your work.
The quiet room you share here is a universe of layered perception, I think.
It was your preamble that led me in, feeling the warmth of the fire and what feels like a wave of silence aimed at the dawning day.