W.H. Auden's "The Labyrinth"

The Labyrinth
W.H. Auden

Anthropos apteros for days
Walked whistling round and round the Maze
Relying happily upon
His temperament for getting on.

The hundredth time he sighted, though,
A bush he left an hour ago,
He halted where four alleys crossed
And recognized that he was lost.


Auden's poem, "The Labyrinth," poses meaningful questions about man's perennial tendency to endlessly seek meaning and cleave to the partial, sometimes ill-defined answers about life at which he arrives. Anthopos apteros literally means "wingless man" and is an apt description of our blind state as we stumble and learn through experience. Initially, we find wingless man happy in his ability to perpetuate his existence through adaptability and responsiveness to his environment. Yet eventually, he realizes that he's not getting anywhere, a state that humans are hardly comfortable with, and so he moves into existentialist conjecture, or the landscape of his mind.

"Where am I?" Metaphysics says.
No question can be asked unless
It has an answer so I can
Assume this maze has got a plan.

If theologians are correct,
A Plan implies an Architect,
A God-built maze would be, I'm sure,
The Universe in miniature.

Auden continues in this vein for eleven stanzas, referencing philosophical, mathematical and scientific schools of thought; but for all wingless man's triumphant thinking, he is still lost and unsatisfied. And so he goes on, until finally he decides that the answer is within himself, but not where he expected. It's located in the dark, gooey side, the scary subconscious that speaks in whispers and symbols, confounding and infuriating the conscious mind so much so that the ego decides it would rather avoid its twin aspect and face life alone. Only after the ego is thwarted in its solitary standing and finally becomes exhausted does it face its whole self.

The centre that I cannot find
Is known to my Unconscious Mind;
I have no reason to despair
Because I am already there.

And so, having come this far, wingless man walks the labyrinth of life holding within him the possibility of becoming comfortable knowing in a not-knowing manner, his chance of discovering that the answers lie within, which, ironically, would allow him to claim greater authority, autonomy and integrity in his life, arises; and there is now the potential for him to determine with enhanced understanding whether he is truly lost, to discover how to be comfortable with the "lost" process, recognizing by giving up the illusion of control, that the "lost" process is also the "found" process.

I'm only lost until I see
I'm lost because I want to be.

But in the end, wingless man remains tragically perplexed, certain that his physical surroundings are greater than he is and wishing he could turn into a creature capable of flying far away. The bird, for its part, as no idea what wingless man is chattering on about, and so wingless man ends up alone and earthbound, having rejected all the answers at his disposal and still lacking understanding of the journey of the labyrinth.

My knowledge ends where it began.
A hedge is taller than a man.

Anthopos apteros, perplexed
To know which turning to take next
Looked up and wished he were a bird,
To whom such doubts must seem absurd.

In these last lines, Auden affords the bird greater wisdom than the human. What the bird knows that wingless man has yet to realize is that to fly, you simply do it. The labyrinth is a "just do it" kind of thing. It's experiential. Like life and breathing. Doubts cripple flight.

Per Amica Silentia Lunae

Twice now I have walked Jessica's Labyrinth by the light of the moon, once demi-lune, once full. In the moon's subtle eye, memories rise like a fog, irritations trip to anxiety, and attacks are born on the subterranean plane where confusion reigns till the sun walks to the eastern horizon. I kicked off my clogs to take my chances among the twisting turns.

It's like me to do such a thing. Traveling in Ireland, I marched up the Hill of Tara, home and ruling center of the ancestral kings, and sat my butt down in the Hag's Chair, which is the throne of the goddess in her final aspect. It's constructed simply of three slabs of stone thick as a man's hand is tall, one the seat and the other two upright on either side. An Irish shaman invited me to take a settle, but coupled the invitation with a warning that the honor of sitting in the Crone's chair came at a great price, since her most profound gift was to teach much needed lessons and she wasn't necessarily gentle in how she went about it.

So this night, facing the labyrinth, the nimbus of the moon provided ample light by which to see. I took a deep breath to rid myself of the workaday world as my feet tested the earth. Then I entered. The wind kicked and the trees rustled the latest wisdom. I looked up at the sky, bruised and tender as dew. There was a lone star in the talking firmament, and the perennial dust of earth mumbled of the effects of man's thunder. Evergreens and deciduous trees writhed in silhouette and I noticed, in the shadows, one tree thick as three men rising like a god above the campus buildings. Turning, a burnt tree stretched toward the canopy like the arthritic fingers of an old woman opening.

Bits of grit and cinder dug into my heels, the pads of my feet, between my toes, and suddenly a bird flew chirping over my head, but this was a different sort of chirping, angry, defensive. It was like I was being told off. I considered for a second that it was a bat as it flapped very close to my head again, complaining ferociously, but looking decided it was definitely a bird, probably a songbird by day, and that my presence was obviously making it very nervous. Ducking again and again, I wondered as it continued to try to scare me off, "Should I just go?" That's probably what a sane person would do, I told myself. But then there was me. I decided to stand my ground, even if I was walking in a circle, and determined that the bird would grow accustomed to me, realizing that I was no threat. Instead of doing what a rational person would do, I flipped up the hood to my beat-up, brown, Obey hoodie my son gave me and continued walking, feeling now very much like a monk.

The bird dive-bombed me without relent, tweeting angrily as I slowly swirled into the labyrinth and a good deal of the way out as well. I knew that it was protecting a nest somewhere. This was nothing personal, yet I was wondering if somehow it might be warning me of a passage soon to arrive. I stilled my mind and listened to the insects chirp in the wild grass. Theirs was a peaceful communication, but perhaps I was angry underneath it all, perhaps I had unresolved issues, perhaps I was defensive in my approach to things. I didn't feel angry and defensive in that moment, but sometimes reactions remain just under the fault line ready to crack what we think we are wide open for the conscious mind to see.

Gazing up at the sky with its painterly indigo, coming out of the tangles of hair, the waves of existence, that sense of loss and finding that the labyrinth provokes, I still after all the unremitting attacks and unresolved soul searching felt a release of some kind. There had been some trial that I walked through successfully, at least to a degree. It had been about ten minutes since the bird ceased its defense. As I suspected, it eventually grew to trust me, to recognize that there was no threat in the brown, hooded figure who persistently walked in circles. And perhaps this is who I will be for the rest of my days. A traveler walking calmly through the disagreements and entanglements of a world too easily upset.

Twists and Turns

Sunday I went to meditation at the Buddhist center connected to the Tibetan store, Snow Lion Imports on Craig Street; but it was unexpectedly closed. Having skipped yoga to go to the meditation, I was disappointed. So, I looked around for something else to do and instead ate a French crepe in a clattering cafe. There were a lot of European people there, which, ridiculously enough, I hadn't anticipated. I thought that the French Crepe would prove to be the regular Americanized foreign restaurant with the regular Americanized foreign fare, and in some ways it was, but it was still European enough to attract people with accents more regularly accustomed to eating crepes than I was. While I ate my savory vegetable crepe with egg and Bechamel sauce and sipped my bowl-sized cup of French tea laced with a pleasant hint of chocolate, I waded through a ritzy travel magazine. In fact, all of the magazines the French Crepe had casually strewn on the window seat were rather expensive and so anything advertised in them was immediately well beyond my means.

I had to admit that the trips to India looked very enticing, strangely luxurious and spiritual at the same time. I wondered, is this the Western view of enlightenment, a lounging meditation among lush fabrics, intricate patterns, and spicy foods in a refurbished palace dating back to antiquity and sheltering us from the hot sun, being waited on hand and foot by staff clad in turbans and tunics? Don't get me wrong, I'd go in a second if I had the chance and I think I'd get something out of the experience. I know myself well enough to know that I'd seek out more than luxury. I'd immerse myself in the traditions of the land, historical and spiritual, and maybe even discover aspects of myself. But how much could I really grow in a week or two? I mean, how long does enlightenment take anyway?

I put the magazine, and dreams of India, away and drove off in my fossil-fueled car. Funny how fossil fuel is one old thing that does not seem to be adding to our enlightenment, but perhaps that's because we're not very enlightened in our use of it. Maybe it takes wisdom to interface with old things. So, I stopped at the university. After finishing a bit of work for classes, I found myself walking in the labyrinth again. This time, it was the middle of the day. It's always interesting to notice everyone else's reaction to my circling and whirling at the crest of the hill. Yet this day, there seemed to be more response than usual. A bicyclist stopped and stared. Joggers gliding past missed their step. Students gawked as they sauntered the roads in shorts, flip flops, and tank tops.

What's interesting about labyrinths is that they're everywhere and they have been for about 3 - 4,000 years. There are Indian labyrinths. There are French labyrinths. The unicursal maze is a worldwide tradition. A person enters, makes a lot of twists and turns, can't figure out how this thing works, where he is, or where he's going; and then, at the center, a decisive turn brings him out again. If that's not a metaphor, I don't know what is.

This time walking the labyrinth, there were no avenging birds. Squirrels did not chitter and throw bark in defense of their space. There was just the same evening-out feeling of something being extracted and something wiser entering in. And I thought. Whatever you make the center of your world will shift. Reality is inland, not out in society. Not on the zafus and zabutons, not in the wallet or the dishwasher, not even in the lover's bed or the job well done. But we get talked into thinking otherwise every day. It's the peaceful, balanced state many of us rarely access, the zero point. That's enlightenment. Yet it does pop up in little surprises and minor turnings throughout the day. And right then and there I could value the moments that shine, even if they only last about as long as a flitting butterfly.

So, how long does enlightenment take? Several lifetimes - more actually - and if you're like most Westerners you'll literally think that you don't have the time because you don't believe that time is cyclical. You think it's one, long spool from beginning to end and when it's over, it's over. Time for Westerners is never ever just a concept. It's a tyrannical fact of existence, an unavoidable vitality parasite. But if you follow the lesson of the labyrinth, you'll notice that you walk over the same steps you took initially. Yet the second time you step on that spot, you're different than the first. That's enlightenment.

On the Farm

I spent a couple of days working at the Eden Hall Farm, Chatham University's newly acquired property out in Richland Township. It was a delightful, if embarrassingly sweaty and ultimately achey, experience. The first day we went out, the chores seemed simple enough. Weed. Plant seeds. Can do. And so we pulled some gloves out of the basket and reached for the proper tools. I immediately garnered the traditional long, slender tool used to uproot dandelions, but Lynn Bruckner, one of the Chatham professors overseeing the gardens, laughed and picked up a mini-pickaxe. "I was thinking of something more like this," she laughed, perhaps a little maniacly, but that's okay. In fact, we all laughed as we wondered what we were getting ourselves into. Yet, she was right. That mini-pickaxe cut through the crabgrass rooted throughout the metal fence faster than anything I could ever come up with, and there was a level of satisfaction gained from clearing and planting a small portion of the vegetable garden. The second day was a much longer affair that included lunch and a swim, and was by far more physical. This is where the sweating and aching came enter the picture. We picked up rocks and threw them into shin-high piles at the side of a new field, ready to become homes for ants and mice now; and we managed the roto-tiller for the first time. What an experience that was. Though I had never used one before, I knew that it could be hard to control and would fight the hand that guides it. I was quite stubborn though and, after two of my classmates turned over most of the soil, I roto-tilled the entire square. I was pretty tired afterward, I can tell you, especially with the sun melting across the blue sky like it was. Yet, I enjoyed being out in the sun and noticing the simple things about life. The sweet sway of fully ripe grass, a breeze caressing my sweat-drenched face during hard labor, deer hopping over a trail of peonies, stopping to determine whether I was dangerous or not. A groundhog on the green window sill of the white shed delighted me and just passing by the quintessential farmhouse filled me with a nostalgia I couldn't place. After our bout with the roto-tiller, some lunch and a swim - and, in my case, a meditation under a tree that left me more refreshed than a plunge in water -we shoveled mounds of dirt up to our shins, planted a few corn shoots at the crest of each one, surrounded those with bean and squash seeds, and hung up pie plates to scare away the deer. We took pictures of our creation, as none of us had ever done anything like this before. And it was a day worth having.

Labyrinthitis

I've been writing about Jessica's Labyrinth for about a month now and I just came across a disorder called Labyrinthitis. What's funny, of course, is not the disorder itself but the fact that I used to have it.

When my class and I first went to the labyrinth, I quickly discovered that it was me who knew the most about these winding paths of discovery. And somehow that day, I felt compelled to say a few things about them - their calming, metaphoric design, the awakening of the heart's language after the mind has been exhausted, the simple engagement in a walking meditation through a chaotic world. Yet I didn't think for an instant that this qualified me to have a more intimate experience with the labyrinth. Nor do I think that repeatedly walking through it is preparing me for greater understanding. The truth is, the public nature of this labyrinth makes it rather difficult for me to resonate with it. Somehow, I just can't get my bearings, or at least not as much as I think I ought to.

Labyrinthitis is an ear disorder that leads to dizziness , tinnitus, and even disorientation. It can be caused by an ear infection, an upper respiratory infection, or allergies. I remember the whole time I was a kid, I had ear aches with great regularity. My mother would heat up some olive oil and ease the pain by dropping a bit of it into my ear. I have to admit that sometimes it was hotter than I would have liked and I would yell her, which did little good. Later, the doctor inserted tubes into my ears to help with my hearing. Then by high school, I could not always hold my balance. I had fairly clever ways of covering this up so that no one would know. For instance, I always jockeyed for the space next to the wall as we moved between classes. Then, propping my books on my hip with one hand as I was talking to friends, I'd drag the other hand against the wall so that I wouldn't fall over. I had to always be touching something, to be stabilized by something outside of me, until the disorder went away. And it didn't go away for a long time, a lot longer than what they say on the internet.

So, when we went to walk the labyrinth as a class, and in my own case for weeks after, part of me was aware of the difficulty in maintaining balance around the hairpin turns, the turns that look like bound intestines when viewed from above. What is metaphor this holds in my own life? I think that I have difficulty trusting the twists and turns of life. I don't feel enough of a foundation. Even now, I'd like to know what's right around the bend rather than making mistakes. Should I contact someone with whom things ended badly if I might be rejected? Is my taking a divergent path than the rest of my family the right thing to do? I don't know. But I do know that fear is not going to bring me any more answers than faltering, and that in the end a few skinned knees or a bruised head (or ego?) are worth the learning how to walk on my own without leaning on anyone or anything.

A Weed By Any Other Name

Talking with scientist and nature writer, Nancy Gift, has brought up a lot of prickly issues around my house. Yesterday, my husband cut down roses in full bloom. And he didn't put them in water either. He calls them "thorns" and I think this whole a scenario is a metaphor for what's wrong with our 18-year marriage. The roses in question are called "Princess" roses. They ramble along our football sized bank above the gentle cushion of vinca minor, better known as "Periwinkle" for its dime-sized blue flowers that blossom throughout the summer. Vinca minor is an evergreen ground cover and therefore popular here in Pittsburgh where dramatic hills make tyrannical maintenance of the land a lot more difficult, particularly for working folk. The princess roses, with their quarter-sized pink blossoms, and the vinca minor form a beautiful partnership every year. Sometimes blooming together, sometimes not, the long display of cascading flowers is always stunning regardless. Until my husband decided to cut down years of growth, that is.

In his zeal, he also trimmed back the periwinkle because it was peeking over the edge of the stairs (Gertrude Jekyll would have been proud) and he cut the azaleas by half. Now, I learned how to prune at Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens from the curator of the Japanese Garden, which means that given enough time, I can shape the plants of our yard to gently cascade into a nearby stream or in any direction I choose. Once, I had two Japanese quinces creating a graceful arch overhead. I had just gotten them to meld their branches together in a lovely, red-blossom covered arbor when my husband felt the necessity to hack them to pieces. That event occurred a number of years ago and those quinces still have never put out branches toward each other again. So, when I realized that the line of white-flowering azaleas I had lovingly planted by the house over ten years ago were suddenly hacked to bits also, I knew that there was no chance of them every assuming a natural shape anytime in the next few years since my husband's trimming method is the "wall" approach, as in take the electric trimmers and go straight up the plant, regardless of its natural growth pattern.

So, how does this all lead to Nancy Gift and her book A Weed By Any Other Name, The Virtues of a Messy Lawn? Well, my husband's rationale is that these plants are nuisances. In other words, all of these flowering plants are, in effect, weeds. Which goes to demonstrate exactly what Gift is saying: Tolerance of the natural world around us would cause a lot less stress and strife than controlling and manhandling an environment we are actually part of, and it might help to save a few marriages.

The Role of Place In My Poetry

I grew up in northern central Pennsylvania regularly traipsing through the woods and going ice skating at the little pond on the other side of Confair's forest. My mother would take us to Ricket's Glen and we would walk around the muddy, treacherous trails that linked the waterfalls. When the weather was dry and the trails were dusty, the falls provided more of a contemplative backdrop for our family outing, with the water trickling softly across flat rock; but when the rains spit down unrelenting, the falls became an altogether dynamic, even scary, sight. Of course, we weren't supposed to be out there during heavy rain but weather doesn't wait for the holiday to pass by undisturbed if it has something to say.

My mother also loves picnics and so we have a long tradition of going to Indian Park for summer holidays and birthdays, touring through the memorial trees again, and playing volleyball or croquet. I come from a family of six kids, and now many of us have our own families, so there's always been someone to throw a frisbee with or take a walk around with to reconnect with the familiar sights. No matter how many times I've visited these spots, I've always found them calming and centering places to regather my wits and energy while catching up with the people who have formed my foundation.

Heading off to college, I turned into more of a city girl, no longer walking about in bare feet and thinking nothing of it. Still, it was in the city that I discovered my favorite tree, the sycamore, and where I never fail to pause to watch the birds and the clouds, or hear the wind and take in the special signs of nature. It was also in the city that I began to study poetry in earnest.

From my first reading of the T'ang poets, I was hooked to the Asian tendency to employ environmental imagery to express the inner landscape. I went on to study other types of Asian poetry and soon realized that the poets of Japan's golden era relied strongly on the use of nature imagery because they would not allow themselves the luxury of depicting their own emotions. Their technique was to lead the reader into a sudden realization by pointing out something emotionally equivalent. It was then up to the reader to understand that the poet also felt the way that the cormorant or the cherry blossom might. This technique has been very influential in my work. It has the possibility of granting the poet great freedom yet at the same time requires some responsibility from the reader. The poet now is able to refer to unresolved feelings within the self and to investigate them by placing them solely out of the body and in nature, so that place has the capability to speak and strongly evoke a particular mood. Also, the poet does not need to explain these feelings, to justify them or make them make sense in any linear, logical manner which opens the door to immediacy and experimentation. I regularly employ nature imagery as a method of indicating the heart of the poem, and I believe that my ease with nature as a child growing up in a small town helped to support the formation of my own voice.