How we perceive reality can change in an instant. Or that was my experience at Sherborne where I was gently, but inexorably, led into a world of immediate perception. Helping me down that garden path was a young visiting instructor, Henri Bortoft. His field in philosophy stemmed from phenomenology and was leading him to relate to the world in a new way. He called this Hermeneutical thinking. We students called it Hermeneutics.
The Hermeneutics of Perceiving Reality
Mr. Bennett was hoping Henri could help us students, “to get a taste of this way of seeing for themselves.” But Henri had no idea how he was going to teach his ideas directly, experientially. Trying to calm his nerves the day before starting, he took a long walk. He found himself on a small bridge over Sherborne Brook, which ran through fields near Sherborne Village. Gazing down at the water as it flowed away from him made him uneasy. He switched to the other side of the bridge.
As his eyes sank into the oncoming water, Henri experienced the water coming towards him. Then, closing his eyes, through him. The more he did this, the calmer he felt. The next day, coming through the door to his first class, he heard himself say, “Our problem is that where we begin is already downstream. We need to learn how to go back upstream and flow down to where we are already. So that we can recognize this [where we are] as not the beginning but the end.” Thus began Henri’s Hermeneutics classes.
Those classes opened doors of perception. We students had already begun relating to the world directly as a practice. Our growing use of sensation, presence, and quieting inner chatter supported this exploration.
Reality Perceived Where I Am
If where I am is the end, then everything coming at me is still in flux and nothing’s really determined until it arrives. So, who I am is not determined except within each Now. Likewise, reality is only Real when it reaches where I am.
In the chapter on Hermeneutics in my memoir, Real People, I talk about how one of my roommates had this wonderful sense of humor. She was an artist and above her bed in our dorm, were posters of flying fried eggs in all kinds of unlikely settings. Climbing up pyramids, for instance. She had also drawn a flying egg on a postcard. The bright white and yellow egg hovered over Sherborne Brook in a sepia-colored landscape. Barbara June’s flying egg gave the postcard a third dimension.
One fall day I went for a walk in the fields near Sherborne Brooke and experienced a sepia-like brown landscape. Coming back to my dorm room I picked up the postcard. As I gazed at the image, I found myself pulled inside the postcard. Literally walking around inside it as if it was my new reality. And it might have been, had I let go of my usual down-stream perceptions. It seemed at the time Hermenuetically possible. Just a matter of how we perceive reality.
But scared of getting stuck inside the postcard, I popped back into the “reality” I usually live in. Maybe next time I pass through a portal, I’ll have mastered my fear and greet reality as it arrives.
You were so lucky to have these lectures with Henri. I am fascinated by the fact that the sight of the water flowing away from him made him uneasy. It touches some knowing in me which has experienced similar uncomfortable situations. Maybe as simple as wanting to be in a particular part of a room. (I am known among my friends for changing tables two or three times in a café before being ready to settle). As for getting drawn into a postcard, inspired by the Narnia stories, I tried to get through the backs of a couple of wardrobes to no avail.
Yeah, the wardrobe thing is enticing. Unfortunately America doesn’t have too many old Manor houses and/or old attics with wardrobes. Or wardrobes for that matter. Most people go for walk-in closets with wire clothing racks and shelves. In retelling this story, a couple of my Claymont friends, like Barbara June, were rooting for me to have stayed in the postcard and explore all it had to offer. Oh well. Maybe next time. I’m starting to understand that Feelings are a portal too. Mysterious, deep, and rich.
I can imagine Barbara June goading you on, while remaining at a safe distance 🙂 . There are probably portals everywhere, think: Harry Potter, the stories of Madeleine L’Engel, Philip Pullman, Tom’s Midnight Garden – time-shifting. A Sherborne student told me about a similar experience he had, involuntarily. It’s not my story to tell, though. Feelings as a portal. Food for thought.
My blog next week is something of a continuation, but a different portal. Kisses-
Hugs!