Fine Lines

One Firefly

18.3 2009 Fall

David Martin

The universe is 14 billion years old; planet Earth is 4.5 billion years old; and humans are less than 100,000 years old, but if the universe was condensed into one day, the total existence of humanity would be the length of time it takes for one firefly’s light to flicker. Of course, the universe is amazing. Sure, the Earth needs exploration, but that one firefly intrigues my imagination the most.

The Lascaux cave complex in southwestern France is 16,000 years old and holds 900 drawings which celebrate many different animals. It has been called the world’s oldest art gallery. Ancient groups of people have worked at Stonehenge, England, for the last 10,000 years: first rearranging the dirt with antlers, then building wooden structures, and finally, erecting the oldest know astrological calendar 5,000 years ago with the 250-ton monoliths that we see there today. However, the most impressive human creation is written language, and the oldest one was created in Egypt about 5,000 years ago when the first pyramids were built. Of all the interesting historical, human developments to arise out of the flicker of one firefly, our written language pushes my imagination the most.

Scientists say the Earth spins on its axis at 1,060 miles per hour and tears through its yearly revolution around the sun at 19 miles per second. Our solar system moves toward the constellation Hercules at 12.5 miles per second. The Milky Way Galaxy contains 200 billion stars, rotates on its axis, and moves away from other galaxies at high speeds. Even though the universe is full of motion, it still achieves a natural balance in all things. Writers achieve harmony by slowing down and transforming their mental universe as they place black on white.

In a human world that is far from perfect, in relationships that are meant to last but often do not, in work which is frequently boring and uncreative, writers need something that people cannot normally achieve. They need an opportunity to measure their thoughts, and they crave to express their feelings of the heart. They need a chance to tell the truth, as they see it. They need a chance to praise the worthy attempts at human self-construction. They need a chance to witness “honesty,” as not a lonely word. They know the value in writing for themselves, and Fine Lines helps them grow, by sharing their ideas with others.

Facing the blank page and overcoming the fear of doing so is how writers and students discover artistic freedom. A closed mind is seldom humorous, no matter how witty the intellect nor how large the vocabulary, and consistent writing opens minds. Writing in any form is a record of survival, and the “dragons” we meet on our journeys through life often become the fulcrum which we push against that propel us higher and farther on our journey. If the dragons in life are tough, how refreshing it is to open the covers of a good read and fall inside.

There really are no rules, mate. There is no one to answer to but ourselves. The blank page in front of us might be the last chance we have to stop spinning so fast and know the truth. The written word spans the seas never crossed. Newly opened windows can let in fresh ideas, as the ink spreads.
Prose and poetry should be taken seriously, because there is not enough beauty in our world. When done well, they keep writers from brooding. However, just putting words on paper is no longer enough. If we put our hearts and souls into the process, we may connect the possible with bliss and the synchronicity with serendipity. Thoughtful, fine lines of writing create envelopes of space that push back the chaotic world and allow us a chance to express inner truths and notice again what it is like to be free.

Like astronauts speeding through the black void of space, serious writers are courageous risk-takers. With each sentence and paragraph, conscientious writers, both students and adults, become acknowledged explorers of our world. They dare to parade pearls of wisdom in front of their readers. They dare to dream a better world in their imaginations. Knowing how to use the tools of writing, they are not afraid of silence and teach us to listen.

Like Mr. Anonymous said, “If the only tool I have is a hammer, pretty soon everything begins to look like a nail.” Might does not make right. More is not better. Speed does not guarantee progress. We should search for beauty, truth, and wisdom in our words. Metaphor makers increase our vision and illustrate the purpose of our lives. Blank pages become epiphanies of understanding and holy places where we understand what it is to make a difference. Learn to read the road signs of life. Possibly, our greatest, personal heroes are those who continue to fight against all odds in defense of the personal pronoun, “I.” They are the ones who get tired of going around and around in circles, perpetuating one cycle after another, and create uplifting spirals of spirit. They make order out of chaos in a left to right fashion and reinforce our right to dream the impossible.

One of the best dreamers, E. B. White said, “I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

Alice Roosevelt Longworth may have the best plan: “Fill what’s empty. Empty what’s full. Scratch where it itches.”

Often, some readers feel writers and students wander only to find they are led to a written, stained-glass windows, where the right side of their brains create communication with vivid, mental pictures. Imagery becomes an aura boosting technique that develops a receptive state of relaxation, fun, and intuitive wonder. If we close our eyes, the natural power of the brain listens and finds a path to wisdom. Pushing ink across the blank pages turns on the natural power of the muse and soon involves all the senses. Passionate writing feels it, hears it, smells it, touches it, tastes it, and sees it. A writer’s mission is to guide the reader from the darkness to the light. Like a small incandescent bulb, the message gradually becomes a shining beacon. We are more creative than we realize, and our motto must be to “just write.”

Getting an education is an inside job. Teachers come to us in the most surprising ways, and frequently, they appear internally. Great learning involves deep listening, searching for the dharma initiative, and being flexible to change. Developing compassion, increasing forgiveness, and removing anger toward others develops an atmosphere of creative progress and inspirational health.

Joyce Carol Oates said, “Where are you going? Where have you been?” To find our future, we must know our past. To know what we think, we have to know what we say, and that means writing things down. The writing process forces us to slow down, so we may grasp the sentient and percolating awareness that bubbles up from our autogenetic unconsciousness. Wendell Berry adds a little more insight, “If you don’t know where you are, you don’t know who you are.”

A friend reminded me that John Harvard, a British minister donated around 400 books and $1,000 (half of his estate), and from that gracious donation, Harvard University was born in 1636. Great writers, such as, R. W. Emerson, H. D. Thoreau, Loren Eiseley, Ayn Rand, and Albert Camus, built their knowledge base by reading the writing of others. Access to information discovered and articulated in the books they read greatly enhanced these writers’ abilities to share insights.

Martin Heidegger dwelt on “entfremdung” (alienation) of man in his “modernized” world, which leaves us detached and removed from the community. Joseph Campbell suggests that man suffers a similar “entfremdung” by the loss of his “gods” and his spirituality. Carl Jung explains to us how we are alienated from our souls. Interestingly, none of these writers foresaw salvation in information like the Internet offers us today. Few of us can understand the technical mechanics that power our computers, yet it is these machines that bring us the power of information, connecting us across the planet, and enhancing our ability to communicate through language and writing.

Some of the best stories told are shared while we sit around a campfire in the middle of the night. As the flames flicker and provide warmth, we are surrounded by the darkness of not knowing what is “out there.” In the distance, coyotes and wolves howl at the moon. In the absence of light, our imagination wonders, “What will come next?”

One night, I listened to a camper tell a long story, and he ended it with this summation: “If all the insects in the world disappeared, all people on the planet would be dead within five years. If all the people on the planet disappeared, in five years the earth would flourish.” There was a long pause, and the campers thought about this image in the stillness.

Eventually, another camper cleared his throat and said, “One day, I memorized part of a Mary Oliver poem called “The Summer Day” in order to get me through the night.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,
how to fall down into the grass,
how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Tell me, what it is you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

As the universe, the solar system, and Earth continue to charge through space, the beauty of the composition process forces writers to slow down and appreciate the miracle of life in greater detail. For some, Fine Lines is that campfire flame bringing light to the darkness. With each new page, the night seems a little less frightening, and the flicker of one little firefly matters more than ever before.