ETERNITY IN AN HOUR (written for Thanksgiving play, 1991)
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
-- William Blake (1757 – 1827)
This poem is a reminder that, whether we’re hopeful or disillusioned, buoyant or bothered, beneath it all there’s a shared innocence, an understanding, a wonderment.
Too often the mind is preoccupied in creations of its own and sometimes forgets to appreciate its source, Creation itself. This is why reminders are needed, such as the subtle shove of poetry, or the enticement of a Thanksgiving feast. Life is a miracle that needs to be celebrated.
An eternity in an hour. Let's check this out.
Probably the best place to start looking for an eternal hour would be in the morning, or more precisely, in the stillness before dawn.
What to make of sleep? There's the ruffle of the sheet and the soft murmur of covers collecting the body heat in womb-like warmth, the pillow maneuvering into the perfect pamper position, the torso taming, the curl and cuddle, the fetal nest.
Nearly one-third of our lives is spent sleeping. Eight hours per day. If one lives to be seventy-five, that’s twenty-five years of sleep. An incredible investment of time. The chief dividend seems to be dreams.
Most slumber positioning relates to the performance of our own superb, superior entertainment, our subconscious chorus line -- dreams. Dreams are those loosened thoughts from many directions and directors, all those buried desires, hidden fears, and pent up anxieties -- it’s an uncoiling catharsis, docu-dreamoramas, our recycle centering. An ingenious other life. In dreams anything goes, and we go right along with it.
Dawn. The baby blue hue, birdsong, the earth's quiet pulse. The first moment of waking. The in-between world, the journey from within ourselves to beyond ourselves.
In dreams we sometimes have no need for a body, but awake the body becomes a magical carpet. Just by thinking we can make this thing move. That’s the power of thought. Cracking the cocoon. That first stretch, the opening of the eyelids, the reaching out of the limbs, the fluttering of our being. Lifting the blankets off. The pause on the edge of the bed, wondering whether this is real, or just a dream, and the immediate thought that it doesn’t matter -- because it’s all the same thing. It’s all part of existence. Life. Living things. The interconnections.
Standing, the first steps, childlike, the mind igniting, sputtering toward the shower. Reach in and turn on the H dial. H for hss. Hot. Hydro-harmony. Hot water. Cold water. A choice of two. Yin-yang control. We live in a world of opposites, an adjustable balance.
Then there’s that moment as the steam starts to fog the room. Vapor clouds to the warmer ceiling, clear coolness settles to the floor. Adjusting the C and the H so that they are in sympathy with the sensory sensation the body seeks. The shower is a cleansing, a ritual anointment, part of the daily rebirth, breaking the water. Stepping into the wet heat. Cascading water beads pour forth. The pause of appreciation. Paralyzed with pleasure.
The mind reflects: thinking is a process of penetrating our own mystery, each thought is an incision into the wall of routine we have built for ourselves...
Lightly scented apple shampoo, the foam, the hair massage, the neglected, hidden scalp with its million antenna crown. The creamy soap. The skin, billions of patterned pores. Water, so womb-warm again. Lather descending along the sinews, then disappearing. Ah...
The towel, the big soft fibrous towel. Opening the window, feeling the onrushing air, watching the shower fog disappear, waking to the chill of the outside, the reminder.
The mist on the mirror. Mirrors, for that matter. That’s me, an echo of me, a body language of my own, a physical I D for those who really don’t know or can’t pin down my inner side. For them that person in the mirror is me. For me that image is an indicator of who I might be, but not of who I am.
It only takes an inspired moment to appreciate our position in the universe of existence. To be able to coordinate the proper muscles, tendons and bones in order to brush teeth is a wonder in itself. So much we take for granted. No matter how skilled and refined, no matter how uncoordinated and awkward. It is miraculous-- thought, movement, perception, reception.
Happiness is an inner warmth, being aware, giving thanks. We occupy bodies which in and of itself is our common link and experience, but we are neither our body any more than we are other extensions of our selves -- titles, clothes, cars, houses, money. Somehow the miracle gets warped and the illusions take over.
Breakfast. More marvel: the refrigerator, the stove, the lights, electricity, a molded and glazed clay bowl and cup, cupboards, packaged food, colorful boxes, wax-paper lining, safe fresh cereal, stainless steel spoon, cold low fat milk, the straight back black chair mated to the round white table. The yellow quarter moon banana, the soft peel, the sweet pulp dissolving between tongue and teeth and inner cheek. Digestion of food.
The newspaper -- a chronicle of a thousand impressions, ideas, scandals, comedy and tragedy, evolving farces, the catalog of yesterday’s fates, the victims and the victors, paragraphs and pictures, manipulations, maneuverings, ads and fads, heroes and zeros. Paper, printing, letters. Where we would be without language, without the magic to conjure up feelings and findings?
The leveler light, muted slants shafted upon the floor; the wooden floor, seamless strips of smooth swirling grains of flattened tree, varnished, heeled and soled with passing moments. The green gracious plants, and the white whispering fan that stirs the invisible.
To dress. What to dress, what mask to masquerade, what costume to assume, what character to portray, what persona to pursue? The window-pane frames a snowball moon in the autumn sky, a strawberry sun just beginning to rise. Mighty Fine Art.
Only a fraction of this first Eternal hour has passed. Overwhelming. And the day is just beginning. The craving to absorb it all -- maybe that's one of the deeper reasons for our sometimes errant restlessness. Life remains an open vault, a fount of wisdom and a miracle that cries out – live!
Blake was an engraver, poet, illustrator, and a mystic who “died in obscurity and poverty.” But he was neither obscure nor poor. Nor is he dead.
Eternity in an Hour, © 1991, 2000 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
return to stories page
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
-- William Blake (1757 – 1827)
This poem is a reminder that, whether we’re hopeful or disillusioned, buoyant or bothered, beneath it all there’s a shared innocence, an understanding, a wonderment.
Too often the mind is preoccupied in creations of its own and sometimes forgets to appreciate its source, Creation itself. This is why reminders are needed, such as the subtle shove of poetry, or the enticement of a Thanksgiving feast. Life is a miracle that needs to be celebrated.
An eternity in an hour. Let's check this out.
Probably the best place to start looking for an eternal hour would be in the morning, or more precisely, in the stillness before dawn.
What to make of sleep? There's the ruffle of the sheet and the soft murmur of covers collecting the body heat in womb-like warmth, the pillow maneuvering into the perfect pamper position, the torso taming, the curl and cuddle, the fetal nest.
Nearly one-third of our lives is spent sleeping. Eight hours per day. If one lives to be seventy-five, that’s twenty-five years of sleep. An incredible investment of time. The chief dividend seems to be dreams.
Most slumber positioning relates to the performance of our own superb, superior entertainment, our subconscious chorus line -- dreams. Dreams are those loosened thoughts from many directions and directors, all those buried desires, hidden fears, and pent up anxieties -- it’s an uncoiling catharsis, docu-dreamoramas, our recycle centering. An ingenious other life. In dreams anything goes, and we go right along with it.
Dawn. The baby blue hue, birdsong, the earth's quiet pulse. The first moment of waking. The in-between world, the journey from within ourselves to beyond ourselves.
In dreams we sometimes have no need for a body, but awake the body becomes a magical carpet. Just by thinking we can make this thing move. That’s the power of thought. Cracking the cocoon. That first stretch, the opening of the eyelids, the reaching out of the limbs, the fluttering of our being. Lifting the blankets off. The pause on the edge of the bed, wondering whether this is real, or just a dream, and the immediate thought that it doesn’t matter -- because it’s all the same thing. It’s all part of existence. Life. Living things. The interconnections.
Standing, the first steps, childlike, the mind igniting, sputtering toward the shower. Reach in and turn on the H dial. H for hss. Hot. Hydro-harmony. Hot water. Cold water. A choice of two. Yin-yang control. We live in a world of opposites, an adjustable balance.
Then there’s that moment as the steam starts to fog the room. Vapor clouds to the warmer ceiling, clear coolness settles to the floor. Adjusting the C and the H so that they are in sympathy with the sensory sensation the body seeks. The shower is a cleansing, a ritual anointment, part of the daily rebirth, breaking the water. Stepping into the wet heat. Cascading water beads pour forth. The pause of appreciation. Paralyzed with pleasure.
The mind reflects: thinking is a process of penetrating our own mystery, each thought is an incision into the wall of routine we have built for ourselves...
Lightly scented apple shampoo, the foam, the hair massage, the neglected, hidden scalp with its million antenna crown. The creamy soap. The skin, billions of patterned pores. Water, so womb-warm again. Lather descending along the sinews, then disappearing. Ah...
The towel, the big soft fibrous towel. Opening the window, feeling the onrushing air, watching the shower fog disappear, waking to the chill of the outside, the reminder.
The mist on the mirror. Mirrors, for that matter. That’s me, an echo of me, a body language of my own, a physical I D for those who really don’t know or can’t pin down my inner side. For them that person in the mirror is me. For me that image is an indicator of who I might be, but not of who I am.
It only takes an inspired moment to appreciate our position in the universe of existence. To be able to coordinate the proper muscles, tendons and bones in order to brush teeth is a wonder in itself. So much we take for granted. No matter how skilled and refined, no matter how uncoordinated and awkward. It is miraculous-- thought, movement, perception, reception.
Happiness is an inner warmth, being aware, giving thanks. We occupy bodies which in and of itself is our common link and experience, but we are neither our body any more than we are other extensions of our selves -- titles, clothes, cars, houses, money. Somehow the miracle gets warped and the illusions take over.
Breakfast. More marvel: the refrigerator, the stove, the lights, electricity, a molded and glazed clay bowl and cup, cupboards, packaged food, colorful boxes, wax-paper lining, safe fresh cereal, stainless steel spoon, cold low fat milk, the straight back black chair mated to the round white table. The yellow quarter moon banana, the soft peel, the sweet pulp dissolving between tongue and teeth and inner cheek. Digestion of food.
The newspaper -- a chronicle of a thousand impressions, ideas, scandals, comedy and tragedy, evolving farces, the catalog of yesterday’s fates, the victims and the victors, paragraphs and pictures, manipulations, maneuverings, ads and fads, heroes and zeros. Paper, printing, letters. Where we would be without language, without the magic to conjure up feelings and findings?
The leveler light, muted slants shafted upon the floor; the wooden floor, seamless strips of smooth swirling grains of flattened tree, varnished, heeled and soled with passing moments. The green gracious plants, and the white whispering fan that stirs the invisible.
To dress. What to dress, what mask to masquerade, what costume to assume, what character to portray, what persona to pursue? The window-pane frames a snowball moon in the autumn sky, a strawberry sun just beginning to rise. Mighty Fine Art.
Only a fraction of this first Eternal hour has passed. Overwhelming. And the day is just beginning. The craving to absorb it all -- maybe that's one of the deeper reasons for our sometimes errant restlessness. Life remains an open vault, a fount of wisdom and a miracle that cries out – live!
Blake was an engraver, poet, illustrator, and a mystic who “died in obscurity and poverty.” But he was neither obscure nor poor. Nor is he dead.
Eternity in an Hour, © 1991, 2000 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
return to stories page