<SPAN name="8"></SPAN>
<br/>
<br/>
CHAPTER VII
<br/>
<br/>
THE FIRST FORM OF CONTEMPLATION
<br/>
<p>Concentration, recollection, a profound self-criticism, the
stilling of his busy surface-intellect, his restless emotions of enmity and
desire, the voluntary achievement of an attitude of disinterested love--by these
strange paths the practical man has now been led, in order that he may know by
communion something of the greater Life in which he is immersed and which he has
so long and so successfully ignored. He has managed in his own small way
something equivalent to those drastic purifications, those searching
readjustments, which are undertaken by the heroic seekers for Reality; the arts
whereby they defeat the tyranny of "the I, the Me, the Mine" and achieve the
freedom of a wider life. Now, perhaps, he may share to some extent in that
illumination, that extended and intensified perception of things, which they
declare to be the heritage of the liberated consciousness.</p>
<p>This illumination shall be gradual. The attainment of it depends
not so much upon a philosophy accepted, or a new gift of vision suddenly
received, as upon an uninterrupted changing and widening of character; a
progressive growth towards the Real, an ever more profound harmonisation of the
self's life with the greater and inclusive rhythms of existence. It shall
therefore develop in width and depth as the sphere of that self's intuitive love
extends. As your own practical sympathy with and understanding of other lives,
your realisation of them, may be narrowed and stiffened to include no more than
the family group, or spread over your fellow-workers, your class, your city,
party, country, or religion--even perhaps the whole race--till you feel yourself
utterly part of it, moving with it, suffering with it, and partake of its whole
conscious life; so here. Self-mergence is a gradual process, dependent on a
progressive unlimiting of personality. The apprehension of Reality which rewards
it is gradual too. In essence, it is one continuous out-flowing movement towards
that boundless heavenly consciousness where the "flaming ramparts" which shut
you from true communion with all other selves and things is done away; an
unbroken process of expansion and simplification, which is nothing more or less
than the growth of the spirit of love, the full flowering of the patriotic
sense. By this perpetually-renewed casting down of the hard barriers of
individuality, these willing submissions to the compelling rhythm of a larger
existence than that of the solitary individual or even of the human group--by
this perpetual widening, deepening, and unselfing of your attentiveness--you are
to enlarge your boundaries and become the citizen of a greater, more joyous,
more poignant world, the partaker of a more abundant life. The limits of this
enlargement have not yet been discovered. The greatest contemplatives, returning
from their highest ascents, can only tell us of a world that is "unwalled."</p>
<p>But this growth into higher realities, this blossoming of your
contemplative consciousness--though it be, like all else we know in life, an
unbroken process of movement and change--must be broken up and reduced to the
series of concrete forms which we call "order" if our inelastic minds are to
grasp it. So, we will consider it as the successive achievement of those three
levels or manifestations of Reality, which we have agreed to call the Natural
World of Becoming, the Metaphysical World of Being, and--last and highest--that
Divine Reality within which these opposites are found as one. Though these three
worlds of experience are so plaited together, that intimations from the deeper
layers of being constantly reach you through the natural scene, it is in this
order of realisation that you may best think of them, and of your own gradual
upgrowth to the full stature of humanity. To elude nature, to refuse her
friendship, and attempt to leap the river of life in the hope of finding God on
the other side, is the common error of a perverted mysticality. It is as fatal
in result as the opposite error of deliberately arrested development, which,
being attuned to the wonderful rhythms of natural life, is content with this
increase of sensibility; and, becoming a "nature-mystic," asks no more.</p>
<p>So you are to begin with that first form of contemplation which
the old mystics sometimes called the "discovery of God in His creatures." Not
with some ecstatic adventure in supersensuous regions, but with the loving and
patient exploration of the world that lies at your gates; the "ebb and flow and
ever-during power" of which your own existence forms a part. You are to push
back the self's barriers bit by bit, till at last all duration is included in
the widening circles of its intuitive love: till you find in every manifestation
of life--even those which you have petulantly classified as cruel or
obscene--the ardent self-expression of that Immanent Being whose spark burns
deep in your own soul.</p>
<p>The Indian mystics speak perpetually of the visible universe as
the <i>L<font FACE="Times New Roman,Times New Roman">ī</font>l<font FACE="Times New Roman,Times New Roman">ā</font>
</i>or Sport of God: the Infinite deliberately expressing
Himself in finite form, the musical manifestation of His creative joy. All
gracious and all courteous souls, they think, will gladly join His play;
considering rather the wonder and achievement of the whole--its vivid movement,
its strange and terrible evocations of beauty from torment, nobility from
conflict and death, its mingled splendour of sacrifice and triumph--than their
personal conquests, disappointments, and fatigues. In the first form of
contemplation you are to realise the movement of this game, in which you have
played so long a languid and involuntary part, and find your own place in it. It
is flowing, growing, changing, making perpetual unexpected patterns within the
evolving melody of the Divine Thought. In all things it is incomplete, unstable;
and so are you. Your fellow-men, enduring on the battlefield, living and
breeding in the slum, adventurous and studious, sensuous and pure--more, your
great comrades, the hills, the trees, the rivers, the darting birds, the
scuttering insects, the little soft populations of the grass--all these are
playing with you. They move one to another in delicate responsive measures, now
violent, now gentle, now in conflict, now in peace; yet ever weaving the pattern
of a ritual dance, and obedient to the music of that invisible Choragus whom
Boehme and Plotinus knew. What is that great wind which blows without, in
continuous and ineffable harmonies? Part of you, practical man. There is but one
music in the world: and to it you contribute perpetually, whether you will or
no, your one little ditty of no tone.</p>
<p></p>
<p> "Mad with joy, life and death dance to the rhythm of this music:<br/>
The hills and the sea and the earth dance: <br/>
The world of man
dances in laughter and tears."</p>
<p></p>
<p>It seems a pity to remain in ignorance of this, to keep as it
were a plate-glass window between yourself and your fellow-dancers--all those
other thoughts of God, perpetually becoming, changing and growing beside
you--and commit yourself to the unsocial attitude of the "cat that walks by
itself."</p>
<p>Begin therefore at once. Gather yourself up, as the exercises of
recollection have taught you to do. Then--with attention no longer frittered
amongst the petty accidents and interests of your personal life, but poised,
tense, ready for the work you shall demand of it--stretch out by a distinct act
of loving will towards one of the myriad manifestations of life that surround
you: and which, in an ordinary way, you hardly notice unless you happen to need
them. Pour yourself out towards it, do not draw its image towards you.
Deliberate--more, impassioned--attentiveness, an attentiveness which soon
transcends all consciousness of yourself, as separate from and attending to the
thing seen; this is the condition of success. As to the object of contemplation,
it matters little. From Alp to insect, anything will do, provided that your
attitude be right: for all things in this world towards which you are stretching
out are linked together, and one truly apprehended will be the gateway to the
rest.</p>
<p>Look with the eye of contemplation on the most dissipated tabby
of the streets, and you shall discern the celestial quality of life set like an
aureole about his tattered ears, and hear in his strident mew an echo of</p>
<p></p>
<p> "The deep enthusiastic joy, <br/>
The rapture of the hallelujah sent
<br/>
From all that breathes and is."</p>
<p></p>
<p>The sooty tree up which he scrambles to escape your earnest gaze
is holy too. It contains for you the whole divine cycle of the seasons; upon the
plane of quiet, its inward pulse is clearly to be heard. But you must look at
these things as you would look into the eyes of a friend: ardently, selflessly,
without considering his reputation, his practical uses, his anatomical
peculiarities, or the vices which might emerge were he subjected to
psycho-analysis.</p>
<p>Such a simple exercise, if entered upon with singleness of
heart, will soon repay you. By this quiet yet tense act of communion, this
loving gaze, you will presently discover a relationship--far more intimate than
anything you imagined--between yourself and the surrounding "objects of sense";
and in those objects of sense a profound significance, a personal quality, and
actual power of response, which you might in cooler moments think absurd. Making
good your correspondences with these fellow-travellers, you will learn to say
with Whitman:</p>
<p></p>
<p> "You air that serves me with breath to speak!<br/>
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them
shape!<br/>
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable
showers!<br/>
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadside! <br/>
I
believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me."</p>
<p></p>
<p>A subtle interpenetration of your spirit with the spirit of
those "unseen existences," now so deeply and thrillingly felt by you, will take
place. Old barriers will vanish: and you will become aware that St. Francis was
accurate as well as charming when he spoke of Brother Wind and Sister Water; and
that Stevenson was obviously right when he said, that since:</p>
<p></p>
<p> "The world is so full of a number of things, <br/>
I'm sure we ought
all to be happy as kings."</p>
<p></p>
<p>Those glad and vivid "things" will speak to you. They will offer
you news at least as definite and credible as that which the paper-boy is
hawking in the street: direct messages from that Beauty which the artist reports
at best at second hand. Because of your new sensitiveness, anthems will be heard
of you from every gutter; poems of intolerable loveliness will bud for you on
every weed. Best and greatest, your fellowmen will shine for you with new
significance and light. Humility and awe will be evoked in you by the beautiful
and patient figures of the poor, their long dumb heroisms, their willing
acceptance of the burden of life. All the various members of the human group,
the little children and the aged, those who stand for energy, those dedicated to
skill, to thought, to plainest service, or to prayer, will have for you fresh
vivid significance, be felt as part of your own wider being. All adventurous
endeavours, all splendour of pain and all beauty of play--more, that grey
unceasing effort of existence which makes up the groundwork of the social web,
and the ineffective hopes, enthusiasms, and loves which transfuse it--all these
will be seen and felt by you at last as full of glory, full of meaning; for you
will see them with innocent, attentive, disinterested eyes, feel them as
infinitely significant and adorable parts of the Transcendent Whole in which you
also are immersed.</p>
<p>This discovery of your fraternal link with all living things,
this down-sinking of your arrogant personality into the great generous stream of
life, marks an important stage in your apprehension of that Science of Love
which contemplation is to teach. You are not to confuse it with pretty fancies
about nature, such as all imaginative persons enjoy; still less, with a
self-conscious and deliberate humanitarianism. It is a veritable condition of
awareness; a direct perception, not an opinion or an idea. For those who attain
it, the span of the senses is extended. These live in a world which is lit with
an intenser light; has, as George Fox insisted, "another smell than before."
They hear all about them the delicate music of growth, and see the "new colour"
of which the mystics speak.</p>
<p>Further, you will observe that this act, and the attitude which
is proper to it, differs in a very important way even from that special
attentiveness which characterised the stage of meditation, and which seems at
first sight to resemble it in many respects. Then, it was an idea or image from
amongst the common stock--one of those conceptual labels with which the human
paste-brush has decorated the surface of the universe--which you were encouraged
to hold before your mind. Now, turning away from the label, you shall surrender
yourself to the direct message poured out towards you by the <i>thing</i>. Then,
you considered: now, you are to absorb. This experience will be, in the very
highest sense, the experience of sensation without thought: the essential
sensation, the "savouring" to which some of the mystics invite us, of which our
fragmentary bodily senses offer us a transient sacrament. So here at last, in
this intimate communion, this "simple seeing," this total surrender of you to
the impress of things, you are using to the full the sacred powers of sense: and
so using them, because you are concentrating upon them, accepting their reports
in simplicity. You have, in this contemplative outlook, carried the peculiar
methods of artistic apprehension to their highest stage: with the result that
the sense-world has become for you, as Erigena said that all creatures were, "a
theophany, or appearance of God." Not, you observe, a symbol, but a showing: a
very different thing. You have begun now the Plotinian ascent from multiplicity
to unity, and therefore begin to perceive in the Many the clear and actual
presence of the One: the changeless and absolute Life, manifesting itself in all
the myriad nascent, crescent, cadent lives. Poets, gazing thus at the "flower in
the crannied wall" or the "green thing that stands in the way," have been led
deep into the heart of its life; there to discern the secret of the universe.</p>
<p>All the greater poems of Wordsworth and Walt Whitman represent
an attempt to translate direct contemplative experience of this kind into words
and rhythms which might convey its secret to other men: all Blake's philosophy
is but a desperate effort to persuade us to exchange the false world of "Nature"
on which we usually look--and which is not really Nature at all--for this, the
true world, to which he gave the confusing name of "Imagination." For these, the
contemplation of the World of Becoming assumes the intense form which we call
genius: even to read their poems is to feel the beating of a heart, the upleap
of a joy, greater than anything that we have known. Yet your own little efforts
towards the attainment of this level of consciousness will at least give to you,
together with a more vivid universe, a wholly new comprehension of their works;
and that of other poets and artists who have drunk from the chalice of the
Spirit of Life. These works are now observed by you to be the only artistic
creations to which the name of Realism is appropriate; and it is by the standard
of reality that you shall now criticise them, recognising in utterances which
you once dismissed as rhetoric the desperate efforts of the clear-sighted
towards the exact description of things veritably seen in that simplified state
of consciousness which Blake called "imagination uncorrupt." It was from those
purified and heightened levels of perception to which the first form of
contemplation inducts the soul, that Julian of Norwich, gazing upon "a little
thing, the quantity of an hazel nut," found in it the epitome of all that was
made; for therein she perceived the royal character of life. So small and
helpless in its mightiest forms, so august even in its meanest, that life in its
wholeness was then realised by her as the direct outbirth of, and the meek
dependant upon, the Energy of Divine Love. She felt at once the fugitive
character of its apparent existence, the perdurable Reality within which it was
held. "I marvelled," she said, "how it might last, for methought it might
suddenly have fallen to naught for littleness. And I was answered in my
understanding: <i>It lasteth, and ever shall, for that God loveth it</i>. And so
All-thing hath the being by the love of God." To this same apprehension of
Reality, this linking up of each finite expression with its Origin, this search
for the inner significance of every fragment of life, one of the greatest and
most balanced contemplatives of the nineteenth century, Florence Nightingale,
reached out when she exclaimed in an hour of self-examination, "I must strive to
see only God in my friends, and God in my cats."</p>
<p>Yet it is not the self-tormenting strife of introspective and
self-conscious aspiration, but rather an unrelaxed, diligent intention, a steady
acquiescence, a simple and loyal surrender to the great currents of life, a
holding on to results achieved in your best moments, that shall do it for you: a
surrender not limp but deliberate, a trustful self-donation, a "living faith."
"A pleasing stirring of love," says <i>The Cloud of Unknowing</i>, not a
desperate anxious struggle for more light. True contemplation can only thrive
when defended from two opposite exaggerations: quietism on the one hand, and
spiritual fuss upon the other. Neither from passivity nor from anxiety has it
anything to gain. Though the way may be long, the material of your mind
intractable, to the eager lover of Reality ultimate success is assured. The
strong tide of Transcendent Life will inevitably invade, clarify, uplift the
consciousness which is open to receive it; a movement from without--subtle yet
actual--answering each willed movement from within. "Your opening and His
entering," says Eckhart, "are but one moment." When, therefore, you put aside
your preconceived ideas, your self-centred scale of values, and let intuition
have its way with you, you open up by this act new levels of the world. Such an
opening-up is the most practical of all activities; for then and then only will
your diurnal existence, and the natural scene in which that existence is set,
begin to give up to you its richness and meaning. Its paradoxes and inequalities
will be disclosed as true constituents of its beauty, an inconceivable splendour
will be shaken out from its dingiest folds. Then, and only then, escaping the
single vision of the selfish, you will begin to guess all that your senses were
meant to be.</p>
<p></p>
<p> "I<i></i> swear the earth shall surely be complete to him or her who shall be complete,
<br/>
The earth remains jagged and broken only
to him or her who remains jagged and broken."</p>
<p></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />