10/02/2011

Elusive Treasures

"...We may witness in nature certain scenes that stay with us throughout out lives and, every time they enter consciousness, can offer us a contrast to , and relief from, present difficulties. He (Wordsworth) termed such experiences in nature 'spots of time'".
-Alain de Botton

The following is a small poem by William Wordsworth that follows this selection in The Art of Travel:

There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue...
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.

This particular passage struck my brain like a hammer on an anvil, while simultaneously playing my heart like the the most nostalgic of melodies. There is, in this poem, so much truth. Such an axiom is something I search for in poetry. After all, why do we appreciate poems or the poets that so eloquently place their inner-most thoughts on paper? It is because we identify and find truth within these scriblings. We draw upon our own experiences and in this case memories in order to feel slightly less alone in this huge world, this often confusing and lonely existence.

Yesterday I found myself in a depressed state, as I often do for no particular reason. Perhaps my frustrations concerning my own life culminated into some philosophical paradox from which I could not escape. I pondered my own morals, my intelligence, and my perspective on life, while considering my lack of vanity and and presence of emotional depth. Though I do not consider myself at all exceptional, I thought comparatively. Who are my peers, and why do I feel so different from them? Why do I consider my own values to be more esteemed than theirs? Why, if that which I hold true and good is, in fact, worthy of value, do I feel such misery and insignificance. The Indian Philosopher Jiddu Krishnamurti once said, "It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted in a profoundly sick society." I would love to accept this as truth for my own sake. However, I am beginning to think that it was Thomas Grey who was the wiser when he wrote, "Ignorance is bliss, when 'tis folly to be wise."

As I lay in bed, listening to music, I pulled out The Art of Travel and began to read. I found Wordsworth's poetry in the section On the Country and the City to be incredibly pertinent to my own life, and I punched myself for never having read his poetry before this. It was after I read the passage on 'spots of time' that I closed my eyes and succumbed to Wordsworth's advice. I thought of the picturesque lake in Maine that my ex-girlfriend and I stayed at for a week last summer: The crispness of the air, the moon hovering over the treeline and coming in and out of view through their desultory yet orderly branches, like an ever elusive treasure. We drifted across the lustrous basin, all silent aside from the hypnotic call of the loon. I had never been so in love, and am all but certain that I will never feel such enchantment again. It was my own spot of time; It was something that will stay with me forever and that I can summon when I feel unsure, lost, or sad. And as Wordsworth put it, I was instilled with a "renovating virtue".

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.
-William Wordsworth

-Tyler Collins

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