A T.S. Eliot poem, the patterns of agriculture & the ordinary aspects of life

Some thoughts on life and living, and more

“The dance along the artery

The circulation of the lymph

Are figured in the drift of stars

Ascend to summer in the tree

We move above the moving tree

In light upon the figured leaf

And hear upon the sodden floor

Below, the boarhound and the boar

Pursue their pattern as before

But reconciled among the stars”

In these troubled times, a little poetry “helps make the spirit bright.”

These lines from ‘Burnt Norton’, a poem by T.S. Eliot—one of his ‘Four Quartets’— speaks (to me) of the circularity of life with its various rhythms and familiar reoccurrences, but also the boundless connections of life and living as well as our ties to the inanimate and dead.

Like countless others, I first read Eliot in college as part of an American Literature course, a sampling of his work appearing in an anthology along with other writers considered worthy of being part of our nation’s canon. His early poem ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ was, as might be expected, included—the ballad that put him on the literary map pre-World War I.

Do I dare disturb the Universe? was a question asked by the narrator. Well, I’ve sought to do just that, though not with much effect. If anything, it’s been more a case of ‘rocking the boat’ and done usually in concert with others.

Also included in the sampling was ‘The Waste Land’, a reflection on the social and cultural aftermath of that “the war to end all wars”—the war being a devastating event with all manner of aftershocks and ripple effects.

“Unusual City, under the brown fog of a winter dream. A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.”

I’ll stop there since I’m no expert on the intricacies and deeper meanings to these two poems, other than like many readers, I find certain passages—the images they invoke—to be arresting and relatable. As was the case of the stanza I quoted from ‘Burnt Norton’.

I read the ‘Four Quartets’ at the recommendation of an older friend, a mentor of mine in my younger days. It was during a brief stay in San Franciso, just out of college, when I had a lot of time on my hand, but little money. So, when I wasn’t attempting to write (which didn’t take up much of the day) or exploring the city on foot, I read. This pastime, I’ll add, was enabled immensely by the books being free to check out at the nearby public library. The reading and overall experience would eventually help inform my writing, but that’s a story I’ve told elsewhere, in a previous essay.

This landmark work by Eliot is actually a series of four interconnected poems, published individually from 1936 to 1942 and in book form in 1943, that were created when he was in his late 40s and early 50s. As a whole, the book is a mature piece of philosophical musings that further cemented his literary legacy. I had copied a few passages in a notebook I kept during my stay and, reading them again for this article, I see that his ponderings on time—past, present and future, the knowable and unknowable—had also caught my attention.

What might have been and what has been, point to one end, which is always present.

And again, the circularity of the personal and universal in the opening line from ‘East Coker’... “In my beginning is my end”… and the concluding one “In my end is my beginning.” But also, the line “But our beginnings never know our ends!”

Ah, yes, the mystery of it all. Existing beyond the edge of consciousness. Existing despite all of the efforts spent trying to fathom the patterns, coupled with the conceit of thinking we’ve mastered the lessons and, more hubris yet, figuring there’s nothing more to learn or comprehend. Too cocksure of ourselves (some of us anyway) to knee in humble appreciation for being alive, for both the diversity and ties that bind, or for “being reconciled among the stars.”

* * *

On my regular route between home and work, I pass by a stretch of nearly flat cropland on either side of the road. They are large tracts of land—at least large by the standards I grew up with when 40 acres usually accommodated two different crops and most farms were a patchwork of small fields.

Our farm, like most others in the community in those days, was a dairy operation, with those small fields used to grow hay, corn, and oats to feed the livestock, and pasture set aside for their grazing. Wheat was our only cash crop. But only partially. The straw was used to provide bedding for the cattle.

Dairy is still around; however, most farmers in this part of the state devote their acreage to raising crops for direct sale to the market: mainly corn and soybeans, along with wheat.

Having grown up on a farm and spending most of my life living and working in the more rural areas of lower Michigan, I’m familiar with the patterns of production agriculture and animal husbandry. The planting of seeds on the freshly tilled land in the first warm days of spring and the new-born calves standing near their mothers are two familiar sights.

In recent days (this being the end of May) I’ve noticed the small green sprouts of corn poking up from the ground, looking symmetrical in their emerging rows. Nowadays, with hybrid seeds and special fertilizer, the old adage of crop needing to be “knee high by the 4^th of July” would instead by a cause for concern—the stalks being the likely victim of insufficient rainfall rather than having reached a suitable height.

While the corn is usually not yet “as high as an elephant’s eye” (to borrow that image from the musical ‘Oklahoma’) when we’re celebrating our nation’s founding, the stalks are usually well on their way to this measure of growth by then.

T.S. Eliot did not have the image of growing corn in those poems I first read in San Francisco, but it’s one I’m sure would have come to mind since the seasonal repetitions of the farm and, in a larger context, the cycles of nature—be it weather or changing landscape—were what I was most familiar with.

They comprised the pattern of living and life as I then knew it—cyclical, but also linear as witnessed in the aging of myself as well as family and friends, the finality being the death of a loved one, or more specifically the death of my father five years earlier. Those experiences, the lessons learned, were illuminated by the poet’s words and the images he created.

* * *

I was struck by a recent news report about Hospice caretakers who said that the dying patients, in their remaining days, often dwelled more on the ordinary aspects of their past than the milestones.

The ordinary or mundane, it seems, held more importance than what might be regarded as noteworthy achievements or milestone events. Maybe this is nature’s way of pushing away any regrets, unfulfilled goals, unrealized dreams, or a host of other ‘what might have been’ aspirations.

Call it callous or pollyannish, but perhaps this choice is another reflection of our ability to survive, both individually and as a species, by adapting to circumstances and doing so by moving past the harsh facts. To see tomorrow as a better day in what, for many, is “a hard luck world.” Maybe it reflects our penchant for embracing illusions over reality and to judge the world and what’s happening from our beliefs rather than taking in other considerations and possibilities.

The end of this life is a hard fact. So, the question arises: How best to judge the life we’ve lived and to what purpose?

There are, without doubt, extraordinary occurrences which severely disrupt or even destroy the daily routines and familiar aspects of people’s lives. War, famine, disease, natural disasters, tragic accidents, and political upheaval are among those that come to mind.

Still, many people—past and present and presumably the younger folks who will follow us—have lives that were, are, or will be made up of habits…things we do day in and day out, week after week, and through the years, changing them, when necessary, but not too much or too fast.

The philosopher William James said that “Habit is the great flywheel of society”—the flywheel being that circular mechanism which in bygone days powered the belts that, in turn, ran the manufacturing machines and assembly lines.

I’ve always thought it an apt metaphor, albeit now dated, for how the daily routines of self, family, community, business, commerce, government, church and leisure keep it all going and how we connect to each other in an ongoing fashion. Habits serve as the building blocks for interdependence and connectivity upon which a society is built and functions.

Another aspect of how important ‘the ordinary’ can be is found in the song lyric “Look for the bare necessities, the simple, bare necessities, Forget about your worries and your woes.” Put another way, it is the habits of day-to-day, when fully appreciated, that can give pleasure and provide a measure of comfort.

You can spend a lifetime of longing for the holy grail of supposed happiness when contentment might be found in what you do day-in-and-day-out—the simple bare necessities of life and living. That’s not a call to abandon aspiration or to never seek to rise above your circumstances or to meekly accept efforts by others or society ‘at large’ designed to keep you ‘down and out’. Nor is it an excuse for looking the other way when others are getting kicked around. Afterall, opposing injustice where and when needed is a good habit to have. Rather, all things considered, it’s a call to enjoy as best possible life’s journey and, if possible, ‘smell a few roses’ along the way.

As I get ever closer to my 74^th birthday, not in perfect health by any means, but (as far as I know) not yet ready for Hospice care in the foreseeable future, I think of that news report and how it is the ordinary aspects of their past that the dying patients talked about.

So, I’m trying harder to savor my daily routines of family and work, pause more often at day’s end to enjoy the small slice of nature in our backyard coupled with the setting sun and emerging stars and moon.

Savor also such ordinary aspects of my life as the morning cup of coffee, preparing the daily ‘to do’ list, the conversations with my wife and the kids, the field of growing corn, the assorted tasks of publishing the newspaper, and writing essays such as this one, not to mention the amenities of a fried chicken dinner, the shores of Lake Michigan, and the flickering flames of a campfire.

Savor as well both the pattern discerned and the mystery unknown as “we move above the moving tree.”

Steve Horton is a mid-Michigan journalist and commentator.