Freshly Laundered & Hanging Out to Dry: Chapter11
Chapter 11
Like Sheep in the Field
Try to learn to come to everything as if it were quite new,
And as if it had no connection with what you have heard before._JG Bennett
In lectures and classes, much attention was given to the philosophical significance of the qualities of energies, will tasks, seven lines of work, the nine-pointed figure called an enneagram used as a tool for understanding the process of transformation, and other diagrams illustrating all of these concepts. It was a fact that most of Mr. Bennett’s writings were of this sort. He was a scientist and presented his philosophy methodically, requiring all of us to stretch our thinking—in my case, well beyond my natural inclinations.
It’s not that examining guiding principles wasn’t significant. I valued the world created at Sherborne where understanding human existence was considered a necessity; yet, sometimes the intellectuality felt devoid of common sense. Couldn’t we see by the results what happened when someone behaved poorly in the garden? It seemed as if Mr. B and his previous students couldn’t process information about feelings directly and needed systematics to create distance from human emotion in order to understand what occurred. For them, diagrams of triads with arrows indicating the order of active, denying, and reconciling forces made it clear.
On the other hand, in the words of one friend, there were other times when Mr. B spoke and the roof opened up. Light from heaven shone down upon us. The building itself floated a foot off the ground and we were transported to another dimension where the laws of the universe were known and seen to be beautiful. Afterward, neither she nor I could remember what he’d actually said.
The next time Mr. B spoke, we might be reminded of how humans were unable to wake up and see themselves as they really were. I felt pulled in opposite directions: first by Mr. B’s unwavering confidence in the spiritual world and second, by repulsion to the narrowly defined authoritarian sense of Work language.
Mr. B gives us a new Theme. He suggests that we examine what happens within ourselves when we experience ‘contact.’
“Part of contact is a matter of being objective, rather than subjective,” he says. “One can put one’s attention into something and not be in contact with it. Contact makes one semi-objective. If you are sensitive enough you’ll be able to see how an object can fulfill its function and how awareness of it changes your state, bringing you into the same world with it.
During the week I notice a situation that seems exemplary. I am speaking with a little girl in her mother’s presence. After our first few exchanges, the adult begins speaking for her, intending perhaps to improve the dialogue, and soon the child is hiding behind her mother instead of interacting with me as she had been when we began.
As with the previous Theme meetings, the thought of bringing my remark forward intimidates me. When none of the observations are about contact between people, only material objects, I assume I’ve misunderstood the Theme. I say nothing. Better to assume than chance humiliation.
In many of our group meetings, not just Theme, Mr. Bennett would ask us a question about our attitudes or behaviors, quick to tell us he did not want to hear our answers aloud. Instead, he had us sit in silence to think about it. If the question was why we did something, it was revealing to listen to my internal answer. Had I spoken, I no doubt would have given it a spin with the intent to please someone or defend myself. His question and the silence provided a safe place where I could tell myself the truth.
This exercise allowed me to uncover and accept many unsuspected motivations. External honesty grew during the year as we became more able to admit to our real motivations, some of which, we learned, could be satisfied in more appropriate ways. For example, a student needing attention rather than information could get a better quality of it from developing friendships rather than by becoming a demanding student. Knowing what we were really seeking made it easier to fulfill the aim. When lessons like this came from Mr. B himself, they had none of the rancor that often accompanied his older students’ judgments.
Lying increases the creative faculties, expands the ego,
and lessens the frictions of social contacts. _Clare Booth Luce
Almost four weeks into the course, my retired army officer friend Ivo is assigned the job of house supervisor. The good part is that he appoints duties to Patrick and me that allow us to be together all day.
“If I could have,” he tells me, “I would have assigned myself to working with you, too.” I’m so pleased to hear that our affection is mutual. The bad part is that he is ill. “I’m sure it’s from feeling so much pressure all the time—the schedule, the Themes requiring us to observe ourselves, the grim atmosphere, and now being in charge of the house. I just can’t keep doing it. It’s time for me to leave.”
I hate hearing him say it, though I shouldn’t be surprised. He warned me before the course started that he wasn’t sure about staying on. Last night he dreamed about abandoning a garden he’d grown. His description makes me wonder if he’s running away from some part of himself that is growing by being here; or whether his being at Sherborne instead of somewhere more important to him is what he abandoned. We don’t try to interpret it. I just hope his leaving is not as much his loss as I’m feeling it to be mine.
Tonight is Ivo’s going-away party. I cannot imagine attending a noisy gathering after class at 10:00 p.m. I go to bed instead. Silence. No people. Escape. As fond of Ivo as I am, that’s all I can think of.
Ivo is leaving today. I go to his room and we embrace, his handle bar mustache brushing my cheek. We exchange a long look with tearing eyes while I tell him he’s been one of my most dependable sources of fun. “What will it be like without you?” For a moment I imagine the relief I’d feel if I could leave, too, yet I’m determined to fulfill my commitment to the course.
I apologize for having slept through his party last night, sorry to be in overwhelm-mode but he knows the feeling only too well. That’s why he’s leaving.
“Come on,” he says, trying to guide me out the door. “I’ve got to finish packing. I don’t know how I’m going to organize my books and all this stuff I’ve collected.” He is quite agitated. Had he come here with all these suitcases? He seems to have worn only one outfit. I can’t imagine how he had ever fit the bags into his little car in the first place, and in addition picked up Toby as a hitchhiker when they’d both first come to Sherborne. What are all these books and papers and knickknacks? I want to make up for my absence from his party, so I insist on helping him pack. Rather quickly, we get everything tucked into boxes and bags to his noticeable relief.
“I’ll pack the car myself,” he insists; so we make our farewells right here.
Later in the morning when my activities take me past the front door, I peek out at the driveway thinking of him. Aware of a wistful emptiness in my chest, I guess I’m hoping to find him still sitting there, debating whether he should leave or not; but the driveway is empty. No abandoned pile of boxes and suitcases either. He must have squeezed them all in. I take in a deep breath of the outside air before turning my back to the door and returning to my duties.
Not many days after Ivo’s departure, a violent storm causes the temperature to drop below freezing. Practical work for a couple of days comprises cutting up a huge ash tree that has been blown over, requiring sawing, splitting, and stacking of the wood. The smooth gray bark is covered along one side with green moss. All of us working look like an illustration from a fairy tale—a bunch of elves, our breaths visibly hovering about our heads. We are dressed in bright sweaters and down vests, scarves, gloves or mittens, and ski caps, our colors rivaling a box of Crayolas. We use every kind of ax and saw—even those six-foot long two-man saws I’d only ever seen in photos from historical societies depicting the cutting of redwoods.
As we stack the wood, I notice we’re bending a sapling that can’t be over three feet tall. I straighten the little tree and move the stacks to either side of it. However, when I return, I find it broken. I point out to whoever is near that “it had been a living tree.” As soon as I hear the tone of my voice I’m sorry to have spoken. It’s a tone I so dislike being the receiver of. Besides, the damage was already done and had no doubt been an accident. If anything, I hadn’t done enough to prevent it. Sandra, the one who broke it, is standing right next to me.
“I thought it was a crooked branch sticking out from one of the stacked pieces,” she tells me. “I feel like I’m wrecking the pile every time I put something down on it.”
She was already feeling incompetent before I had my say. Look how I’ve changed the merry picture of elves into this. “I’m sorry. I could have pointed the tree out before anything happened to it. You weren’t trying to damage it.”
It’s hard to reconcile my snappishness with my exquisite sensitivity. Why can’t I just stop behaving in ways I don’t like? There are ways other than raging for getting a point across, yet I do it as often as I complain about it being done by others. If I had put my attention on sensation in my foot before I spoke, maybe I could have bought myself some time until another sensibility awakened. It could have worked like the old folk wisdom of counting to ten before you speak.
Honest criticism is hard to take,
particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance,
or a stranger. _Franklin P. Jones
At Sherborne we have an unusual breed of sheep called Jacob sheep that belong to Anya and Keld, a couple who had been on last year’s course. Each sheep has white and dark brown wool that has already inspired the creation of several beautiful sweaters. Some are white and brown; others have a third tone made by carding the two together. Our task is to get the animals into the shed for a veterinary exam. They are in the flat park-like field out front that has a few scattered trees and where the donkeys and horse spend most of their time, too.
“Here, Wooly, Wooly, Wooly!” Pierre calls. They walk right over to him, interested in the hay he is holding up to their noses. Five of us students circle at a distance, holding our arms out to bar the spaces between us. Again and again we are able to herd the five sheep together and move them in a particular direction but whenever we think we are about to drive them into the shed, one of them gets spooked and leads the rest in a breaking run through our circle.
An hour passes before we succeed in positioning them just right. At that moment, one of the donkeys saunters over to the entrance to the shed and stands there blocking it. We give a collective moan and begin the process once again. Our ranks swell to maybe twelve and, at last, we’re able to coax the donkey away and convince the sheep to enter. It’s taken two hours!
It feels as if I’ve just been in a Movements class—the exhilarating cold, standing perfectly still holding my arms out forever, needing to be alert enough to block a sudden escape, then seizing the right moment to goad the sheep in.
The picture continues to play in my mind for hours—as if it’s really an image of us students at Sherborne. Hungry for the spiritual food gained from our conversations with Mr. B about the meaning of human existence and wrestling with the practices we’re learning yet questioning the need at times to be herded into a dark little shed.
July 10th, 2010 at 1:32 am
Hi Barbara.
Love the sheep. Many Sherborne staff who had lived in communities with the Bennetts had advice regarding special opportunities when higher energies were present. George Cornelius always said to go out to garden after morning exercise before breakfast. Michael Sutton made a bee line for the sheep as soon as we were out the green room door when Bhante and Mr B were meditating with us. We never talked but pet the sheep in the field by the front drive “filling them with Love”. Mick said it was the only place to go after the late night meditation as it helped the sheep becoming conscious. I have a piece of wool Elizabeth spun to remind me. Thank you, Hi Jane and Paul.
Best Wishes,
Ken
July 22nd, 2010 at 8:24 pm
Your sheep tale reminds me a bunch of us trying to herd some cows back into their field at Claymont. Hahahahahahahahahahhaha! Oh, and I’ve got a couple of photos from the time Ruth Liengaard and I sat in the centre of a herd of cows, in one of the neighbouring fields at Sherborne. I was terrified - convinced that one of them was a bull.
July 22nd, 2010 at 8:27 pm
I remember Ivo, too. I’m not sure, but I have a vague memory of his coming to talk to my dad, before he left, and my father saying that this was a pattern, and that he would be confronted with it again and again. Hmmn. Sounds familiar.