COULD WITCHCRAFT (a.k.a. willed attention) BUILD A NEW WORLD?

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Predictions are risky, but sometimes we feel they have to be made.

That’s how I felt after rereading Madeline Miller’s wonderful recent novel, based on her deep knowledge of Greek mythology (NY: Little, Brown & Co., 2018). Circe has already been praised as a fascinating page-turner, but an attending metaphysician might see it as a corrective potion for women and all others who fear they are powerless to affect the future.

Miller endows the witch Circe, a character in Homer’s Odyssey, with an intimately candid voice, and observational powers that could resonate with the consciousness of many women today, especially those inspired by the #MeToo movement. Considered ugly by her mother and stupid by her siblings, Circe was mocked and unloved among the minor deities. She craved the approval and attention of her father, the Titan sun-god Helios—whose leadership of the Greek pantheon has been sidelined, but not entirely crushed, by Zeus and the Olympian gods—but she is ignored. Until she schools herself in sorcery.

When their fellow Titan, Prometheus, is brought to Helios’ castle to be tortured for the crime of showing mortals how to use fire, Circe stays behind, offering him a drink of nectar–which he accepts–to comfort him before he is dragged away to suffer eternal torments. Though nearly powerless among the gods, she seizes this chance to show mercy, an act of tremendous courage for which she could have been killed if anyone noticed. Without experiences such as this, Circe confesses, she might never have broken away from thousands of years of “dull miseries” (13).

Her voice is raspy like a human but her eyes glint like gold, so she is named Circe, or hawk. Miller has her narrate this myth-soaked fiction with the authority of one who calls out her own foolishness and ignorance. With a raptor’s hawk eyes she perceives the destructive pride of legendary heroes and immortals. As for the seeming truce between Titans and Olympians, she warns: “Beneath the smooth, familiar face of things is another that waits to tear the world in two” (16).   She describes her life up to the episode with Prometheus as having been “murk and depths, but I was not a part of that dark water. I was a creature within it” (24). – Ah, the pull of individual initiative. Any relevance to current mortals?  Do ancient myths of Titans and Olympians have anything to teach us about national leaders?

Circe’s brother openly described himself as a pharmakis, or sorceror/witch, and was not punished but given his own kingdom (Colchis, birthplace of his daughter, the witch Medea, of child-murdering fame), because he’d told his father that his powers had come to him by accident, that he had not worked for them. When Circe asked him to teach her, he refused. “Sorcery cannot be taught,” he told her. “You find it yourself, or you do not” (69). He also noted that “pharmakeia is not bound by the usual limits of gods” (70)—that is, it is accessible to mortals as well. In Miller’s version of Circe’s world, witchcraft consists first in the patient, trial-and-error study of plants and herbs for the properties that can heal or strengthen the abilities of humans. But foremost, the most decisive component is a strong, focused, determined will.

But unbridled will, especially for revenge, can have terrible consequences.

Unfortunately, as she is developing her craft, Circe falls in love with a mortal, Glaucon, and uses potions to turn him into a god so that she might have an immortal companion. But as soon as he becomes a god his attention turns to another nymph, more beautiful but entirely selfish and uncaring—Scylla. Furious at Glaucon for this betrayal, Circe transforms Scylla into a multi-headed, man-eating sea monster. Thereafter her witch’s conscience is burdened by the weight of knowing that her magic causes the horrific deaths of untold numbers of innocent seafarers. Her brother tells her to choose better after Glaucon, that she has “always trusted too easily” (76).

The shocking transformation of Scylla threatens the rule of Zeus, who insists that Circe be exiled and live alone. Helios obliges by sending her to Aiaia, a magical island in Titan territory.  There she occupies a spacious mansion whose floors, dishes and laundry emerge clean each day by magic, and stores of food and wine are constantly replenished. She realizes that in carrying out this punishment, her father Helios has, despite Zeus’s order, equipped his daughter to rise in exile “higher than before” (80).

How many women find themselves in a much less exalted exile, where they must find their own lodging, clean everything, prepare food, and build not only a life but an identity? Circe’s first night alone is an epiphany in itself, where she realizes how many things she feared. Just being able to survive until the next morning, she is aware that “the worst of [her] cowardice had been sweated out,” and decides not to become like a bird bred in a cage, “too dull to fly even when the door stands open” (81). Similar to many mortals in other circumstances who have to push through their own ignorance, Circe explains:

Let me say what sorcery is not: it is not divine power, which comes with a thought and a blink. It must be made and worked, planned and searched out, dug up, dried, chopped and ground, cooked, spoken over, and sung. Even after all that, it can fail, as gods do not. If my herbs are not fresh enough, if my attention falters, if my will is weak, the draughts go stale and rancid in my hands. (83)

Even after she has learned which plant have what properties, nothing goes right unless she pays full attention, and gives her best energy to it. What is it about attention, we ask, that it alone empowers someone who lacks sufficient divine power? Whatever that is, even a lowly, rejected, isolated and basically ignorant woman has it.  By rights, Circe should never have come to witchcraft, because all the gods “hate toil, and are spared all forms of drudgery due to their power,” and witchcraft is “nothing but drudgery.” “Day upon patient day, you must throw out your errors and begin again” (83)     — So why bother, unless you happen to be human? Circe’s answer:

For a hundred generations, I had walked the world drowsy and dull, idle and at my ease. I left no prints, I did no deeds. Even those who loved me a little did not care to stay. Then I learned that I could bend the world to my will, as a bow is bent for an arrow. I would have done that toil a thousand times to keep such power in my hands. I thought: this is how Zeus felt when he first lifted the thunderbolt. (84)

Through her many years of solitude and loneliness, her island is visited by various types of desperate men—some honestly shipwrecked, whom she helps; others led by cunning, cruel leaders who eat her food, drink her wine, and, seeing she has no man to protect her, are ready to rape and even kill her if she resists. Ring any #MeToo bells?  So she develops a potion to add to their wine that turns them into pigs. Too bad some of us mortals can’t do the same, except by identifying them as such.

When the famous warrior Odysseus shows up at her door, abandoned by his patron goddess, Athena, he is the first man who really listens to her, and becomes the closest thing Circe has known to a friend and lover. Except that he is married to the loyal Penelope, and intends to return to her and to Ithaca, the island where he is heir to the throne. Odysseus entertains her with stories of the Trojan War, its heroes and losers, and his keen understanding of his men and their weaknesses—knowledge as important as awareness of their strengths. He is honest about his own treachery, lies, and betrayals–promising to spare a captured spy, and killing him after he’d divulged all his valuable secrets–sneaking into a rival army’s camp and slitting the sleeping soldiers’ throats.

Circe’s experience seems comparable to that of so many women who learn from men the complexities of warfare, the brutality of which that destroys all purity of honor and heroism. Odysseus’s tales confirm to Circe that there are no glories in war, especially when men serve the egos of gods and goddesses in competition for glory.

The great god Apollo appears to Circe before Odysseus leaves, forcing her to be silent as he gives her a vision of Odysseus at the entrance to the underworld, where he faces the blind prophet Tiresias and the spirits of Achilles, Ajax, Hector and other warriors he’s seen die on the battlefield. Rather than feel honored by this vision from Apollo, Circe is enraged and humiliated: “I wanted to tear him with my nails. The gods and their incomprehensible rules.  Always there was a reason you must kneel. …How many times would I have to learn? Every moment of my peace was a lie, for it came only at the gods’ pleasure. …at a whim they would be able to reach down and do with me what they wished” (230).

The gods she resents, evidently, are those who interfere with others’ lives, denying powers of choice and personal agency.  We don’t see them as gods these days, but aren’t powerful interests still imposing their own rules on our lives?  What kind of powers can we muster to  break free of them?

Before Odysseus leaves, Circe gives him instructions and potions that will protect and enable him to meet with Tiresias and return to Ithaca. She does not know yet that she is pregnant by him.  When it is time to give birth, she feels the gods are preventing her child from being born, so she cuts herself open and pulls the infant out screaming.  When it is clear the boy will survive, the great goddess Athena appears, commanding Circe to give up the child, without explaining why she intends to kill him.  Although Athena offers to give Circe another man who will give her another son, plus her eternal favor and protection, Circe refuses, thinking to herself (and us): “Athena had no babe, and she never would.  Her only love was reason.  And that has never been the same as wisdom.”

Athena belittles Circe’s “weeds and little divinity,” and vows to take her son in the end. It is very moving that after Athena leaves Circe alone with her infant son, the witch calls out into the empty air: “You do not know what I can do” (251). It is one of the great messages of Miller’s novel.  What Circe cries out is more for herself than for Athena’s ears.  She has to assure herself–and us–that the powers that try to control us for selfish ends should never underestimate our determination to protect those we love.  The will, driven by love, is stronger than others’ lust for power and fame. …It’s just that we need to overcome self-doubt, and do not ourselves know how much we can do.

When Telegonus is15 Circe tells him about his father, and from then on all he dreams about is sailing alone to Ithaca to find Odysseus. Rightly terrified that he will be killed by Athena, Circe is so determined not to lose her son that she descends into the darkest depths of the sea to challenge Trygon, the ancient creator-god, to lend her the use of his poisonous tail, known to be capable of killing a human with the slightest contact, and of making a god suffer unending pain. No gods had ever succeeded in borrowing Trygon’s tail.  Circe’s brother tried, but had not been up to it.

In a breathtaking encounter with this ancient creator-god, Circe hears that the price for using Trygon’s tail is an eternity for her of physical suffering.  Despite her overwhelming fear, she focuses her mind on the image of her son’s bright, innocent, hopeful face, and extends her hand to accept the penalty.  I urge everyone to read this thrilling scene, but I almost laughed when Circe hesitates, wondering if she is being played a trick, and Trygon has to insist that she cut off his tail, and dismisses her fear that it could lead to war between the Titans and Olympians!  He has to remind her that she’d come all that way to demand this favor!  As Circe reluctantly begins to cut off the deadly tail, she thinks to herself–even realizing that she will survive this ordeal–that she cannot bear this world for another moment.  The primordial god hears her thought, and replies, Then, Child, make another.  (282)

What can we make of this modern twist on ancient Greek mythology?  Miller, not Homer, creates this dialogue between Trygon and Circe.  The ancient world would not have given a female immortal such a vote of confidence to go forth and make a better world.  But today we have a woman author with knowledge of the classics,  who writes about a witch goddess who would rather be a mortal woman.  Most readers of this novel can relate all too easily to the drudgery, loneliness, numberless failures and mistakes–including being raped–that Circe undergoes to acquire her skills. Even today, the term witch bears the burden of disapproval and exile.  Miller’s contemporary personification of Circe has the will, and hears the command of a much more ancient and powerful god, to make a new world. That’s what a new mythology might be able to accomplish, if we only paid attention, and applied our will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ARGUING WITH A GREAT MEMOIR

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A GREAT MEMOIR IS LIKE A LINGERING CONVERSATION

I’d heard about but not read Mary Karr’s classic memoir The Liars Club (1995), until after the release of her masterful how-to treatise, The Art of Memoir (2015). Karr followed up Liars Club with two more bestsellers, Cherry and Lit, setting the bar for personal accounts of surviving apocalyptic childhoods that plunge into wild, self-abusing adolescence and early adulthood. In a world where self-destruction is always an option, people with their own threats to survival are drawn to real life stories for inspiration and perhaps the chance to feel part of a secret community amidst their isolation.

Sometimes what inspires comes by arguing a bit with the author.  In The Liars Club, Mary returns to her East Texas home from college:

Back at school, I’d been trying to read the philosophy of art…. I loved the idea that looking at a painting or listening to a concerto could make you somehow “transcend” the day-in, day-out bullshit that grinds you down; how in one instant of pure attention you could draw something inside that made you forever larger. In those days the drug culture was pimping “expanded consciousness,” a lie that partly descended from the old post-industrial lie of progress: any change in how your head normally worked must count as an improvement.

It was either her belief in this “lie” about altered states of consciousness, she writes, or beer, that propelled her into a most beatific game of pool, where even her father whistled at the incredible efficacy of her bank shot. She was floating in joy to be back home with her dad in the Legion Hall where he and his fellow oil workers—all low paid and receiving no honors for punching the time clock—gave pool the kind of attention their jobs didn’t deserve. They played pool for “itself alone.” Its spiritual comforts, such as friendship, could not be “confused with payback for something you’d accomplished.”

I was taken by Karr’s lucid particularity, not so much on the methodology of playing pool, but on the exhilaration that comes with pure, selfless attention. Quality attention, such as these vets with mind-numbing jobs played this game with zero vanity, posturing, or expectation of recognition for their skill. However…as a metaphysician of attention, I found myself questioning Karr’s so-called “lie” about expanded consciousness that she ties to the so-called industrial revolution’s so-called idea of progress.

Karr’s memoir seemed to be giving the art of playing pool for itself alone the kind of status she’d debunked in her philosophy of art class. So let’s dismiss all phonies who pretend to love great art for reasons outside the art itself [such status-seeking], and focus on people who sincerely want to explore what goes into making great art. The latter might ask: Is Karr’s eye for the geometric wizardry of pool all that different from an art historian’s meticulous analysis of Vermeer, Matisse or deKooning? Since many of us cannot claim pool as part of our personal skill set, Karr’s memoir seems to capture what it meant for the working men of that East Texas oil town and frame it on an indelible canvas. With full respect, who is she to imply that readers of her memoir might experience moments of pure attention that could expand our consciousness, possibly a real, if ineffable, “improvement”?

Being with her father’s friends relaxing at the Legion Hall, Karr writes, “clarified who I was, made me solid inside.” Isn’t that a chunk of self-knowledge, achieved by means of pure attention—via the hard-won honesty of memoir writing? Could we dare to call it a respectable way to “pimp” expanded consciousness? I wrote the preceding lines before reading Karr’s Art of Memoir. In the latter I learned that she’d been recommending all sorts of consciousness expanding techniques—including meditation—and having similar conversations with herself and her writing students for 30 years.

My next piece will attempt to share some of the ego-evaporating experience of returning to playing classical piano after decades of ceding to other priorities, neglect, guilt and frankly, missing the frustrating practice that I loved.

INTERVIEW WITH MARILYNNE ROBINSON

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Some of a great writer’s deepest thoughts might pass under the public’s radar simply because they appear in an academic journal.  I hope this won’t be the case with the eye-opening observations of Marilynne Robinson that appear in a special issue on her work of the journal Renascence, published by Marquette University (Vol. LXVI, No. 2, Spring 2014).

Robinson is a renowned, prizewinning novelist (Gilead, Home, Housekeeping).  She is also a serious and challenging essayist, author of Mother Country, The Death of Adam and When I Was a Child I Read Books.  My interview for Renascence focuses on her nonfiction.

In the interview, Robinson offers readers a challenging insight about today’s culture—our tendency to undervalue ourselves as souls.  You might suppose that her perception—given her essays on the Calvinist faith tradition—would apply only to people who believe in souls.  Hardly.  I find it purely metaphysical at heart, because it is all about what kind of attention we give one another.

In When I Was a Child I Read Books, Robinson comments that we have “a painful and ongoing history of undervaluing ourselves and exploiting one another.” I asked her by what means this takes place, and how we could counteract this influence.  Robinson answers, in part, that “the great world tells us that life is all a matter of marketing,” and that “shoddy cultural goods are supposedly justified by the fact that people buy them.”  The same goes for shoddy political goods, she says, and when the public accepts and perpetuates “these condescensions” they “endorse cynicism,” which is “a kind of damp shadow that blights the flourishing of the better things we want and need.”

Shoddiness in culture can be anything from tv shows and commercials to rap lyrics, movies, magazines, pop art, and unverifiable cyber commentary.  It ends up being shoddy to the extent that whoever generated it did not give it full attention, which implies respect for its subject matter.  When rap lyrics refer to women as sexual objects to be violated and tossed aside, the men who write and sing them are not, of course, applying their attention to the humanity of women.  They are selling macho swag at the price of women’s dignity.  And that blights our culture by casting a damp shadow on women’s hopes for better relationships with men, and those men’s relationships to the children they father.

Cynicism is the driving force behind politicians who disparage social programs that help the poor and provide educational opportunities, among other government efforts of clear benefit to society.  Their distorted and often fabricated claims are part of a cynical agenda to reduce taxes on the wealthy at the expense of the poor and middle class.  No need to argue how far this blight has spread in today’s world.

The shadows of cynicism hang over billionaire industrialists whose factories and refineries pollute our environment.  They try to pour millions anonymously into political campaigns whose goal is to remove government safeguards against industrial pollution.  If they were publically identified, the people whose lives are harmed by such pollutants could apply the powers of their own attention to these cynical machinations.  Result: such condescension to the wellbeing of others would be thrown into the light of justice.

In the world of religion, the blight of cynicism is associated with sin and evil.  In the secular world, let’s just say it’s an enemy to be reckoned with.  Today the reckoning has to consist in not only paying full attention to the threat, but speaking out and exposing it to the light of others’ attention.

As any attending metaphysician would tell you, personal attention has the power to change personal lives, culture, and politics.

 

On the BIG QUESTION, “WHY?” When we all have to die…

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REFLECTIONS ON “WHY? THE FICTIONS OF LIFE AND DEATH” BY JAMES WOOD

Wood is one of our finest literary critics, whose book How Fiction Works deserves to become a classic.  I was struck by his recent essay in The New Yorker (12-9-2013), which grabs you right off with his recent presence at the funeral of a 44-year-old man he did not know.  The deceased, brother of a close friend, was cut down in his fun-loving prime by a fluke illness, leaving behind a wife and children.  This spurs Wood to ask the Big Question: If we all have to die, for what purpose do we live, when most of us will soon be forgotten?

Wood confides that he lost his faith as a boy, when his parents could not explain why God let people die, like the single mother of his playmates who got cancer, or why some are born with mental and physical handicaps, suffer fatal freak accidents, and so on.  He writes that in his youth, to conceal his atheism—along with swearing, drinking, and listening to Led Zeppelin—he began to lie.  He began searching through novels for answers that religion refused to divulge.  Fiction seemed more honest because it “moves in the shadow of doubt, knows it is a true lie,” and “is always a matter of belief—for readers to validate and confirm.”

What was dangerous and troublesome in religion to Wood was “the very fabric of fiction,” “a ceaseless experiment with uncollectible data.”  Wonderfully put.  Who has not hopped onto the magic carpet of literature to be transported to distant climes and into the heads of characters so unlike—or shockingly like—ourselves?

Anyone paying attention to how they pay attention would agree that great novels are so full of their own life that, while reading them, our own mortality is momentarily banished.  In Wood’s terms, “Death will roar back, but not yet, not now.”  Except that a few great novels are filled with death and dying in ways that may help not a few readers cope with it better.  Tolstoy’s novella “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” is one.  The dying Ilyich, alone with his thoughts, reluctantly begins to review his ungratifying life from a previously disdained perspective—how little he has valued love in his striving for worldly status.

Most moving about Ilyich’s story, he seems entirely real.  This leads to where I differ from Wood’s choice of fiction as our best vehicle to convey what is dangerous and troublesome to religion and to any sort of received value or belief.  If we knew that this failed bureaucrat Ilyich was a real person who tried to work his way up the career ladder as we have, wouldn’t we take his moment of truth more seriously?  Lifelike fiction or real plodding human experience?  Not that we don’t love fine art, but—really.

There’s a reason so many Christians cling to the faith Wood found unsatisfying.  One reason, perhaps the biggest, is that Jesus, being born human and living among real people, had street cred.  There’s a kind of writing–not fiction, much as we love it–that carries the same credibility.

Wood overlooks something essential when claiming that novels perform “what God vouchsafes to us in Psalm 121: ‘The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in.”  Fiction preserves some of the history of our imagination, and much of what we imagine is based on real experience.  But fiction is also—and for some, most importantly—a means to travel beyond the borders of daily existence, to escape the finitude of the doors, rooms and routines we pass in and out of.  It’s just that some of us don’t always seek escape.  We want to face, to get help facing, whatever reality throws at us.

Woods overlooks the kind of writing that deals with the actual passages of our life, nonfiction.  Memoir, autobiography, personal journals and letters, to some extent biography.  In theological terms, the Lord’s promise to preserve our goings and comings is carried out partly by those created in His/Her image.  Even for nonbelievers, that instrumentality, the attempt to preserve and give meaning to our goings and comings, may be why nonfiction writing, especially memoir, has overtaken novels in popularity.

Memoirs are now written and published even by unfamous people whose lives do not make the history books or tabloids.  They are written and read for reasons that grapple with the Big Why of Woods’ essay, in non-imaginary realms, where readers realize that truth being stranger than fiction can be very entertaining.

Market research shows that memoir readers search for life stories that bear upon their own struggles and questions.  One of the strongest motivators for people to write about the darkest moments of their lives, strangely enough, is not self-promotion but to give others hope that they can survive their own particular shocks and horrors.

Here’s the thing, from a cosmic perspective.  Memoir writers and their readers can be likened to a communion of not-necessarily-saints.  A vast community of people trying to understand the perplexities of their own lives by learning about others’.  A bottom-line benevolent support system, so to speak.

There’s a deep undergirding of care to the whole enterprise of writing about one’s life and reading about others’ lives.  It involves a quality of attention that searches for healing and insight, and looks for hidden connections.  Whether perceived as divine or secular, this attention is life-affirming and mysteriously influential.  Shakespeare could have spoken for self-exposing scribblers and their readers in his famous, slightly misquoted line, There is a divinity [not “destiny”] that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.  (We translate ‘divinity’ loosely here as ‘that which increases understanding by means of quality attention.’)

Wood says fictional characters, even if they die, return to life when we reread their stories.  By contrast, he needn’t add, real people die and stay dead. But not if they write a memoir, fill a journal, or write letters that survive.

Memoir writers not only have to find a narrative structure for the portion of life they are trying to write about.  They must face the existential challenge of writing as truthfully as possible, even if it may offend people they care about or uncover shameful or humiliating details.  It is a soul-wrenching project—one that feels like we need an assist from God and/or the spirits of brilliant writers past.

Dredging up memories is the just the beginning.  Once you’ve written them down, you must put them in a some rational sequence, a narrative.  Enter the agonies of craft.  You cut, paste, supply names, dates and locations to episodes partially forgotten, and change names to protect the living.  Making a readable story requires playing God in your tiny written universe—deciding to cull extraordinary persons and intriguing sub-plots in favor of those that move your story forward.  Doing so requires that you constantly refocus and reevaluate what deserves your own and readers’ attention.

It is perhaps the ultimate human quest: how best to give voice and form to the truth of one’s own unique life.  Why?  Because we can.  Because once we’ve written something in our own voice, it is part of creation.  Possibly immortal.

Introduction and Welcome

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You don’t need to be a professor in an ivory tower to do metaphysics. Not everyone, no matter how intelligent, ends up in academia, and not everyone there does metaphysics.  People do metaphysics when they ponder the whys and wherefores of life—from whatever standpoint they find themselves in.  I’ve met some serious metaphysicians who are taxi drivers, homemakers and electricians.  What makes them serious is how carefully they pay attention to what’s going on around and in them.  Here’s how I got started:

My mother was a nurse who loved to read, everything from fine poetry to the National Enquirer, from beauty tips and celebrity gossip to international news and political commentary.  She loved human interest stories the most, and shared the best bits with her family.  The one I found most intriguing has stuck with me all my life.  It was about  “boarder babies.”

There was a hospital with a maternity ward, according to this piece, where women sometimes gave birth and left their babies there unclaimed.  Note, these newborns were perfectly healthy with no birth defects.  They were cared for by nurses and aides who kept them clean, warm, and well nourished.  But the hospital staff had many other duties, and that was all they were able to do.  …What happened to those perfectly healthy little babes?

My students have been shocked, at least momentarily, to hear this.  But  occasionally a natural metaphysician among them pops up with the correct answer.

They died, that’s what.  Not of disease, or malnutrition.  They died for lack of attention.

Others ask snarkily, as some students tend to do, “You mean to tell us that babies who don’t get cuddled and cooed at give up and die, just like that?”

Think about it, I say.  You’re new to life, in a crib in a maternity ward.  Other babies’ mothers pick them up and hold them, family and friends ooh and ah and say how cute they are, and you are ignored except for the quick diaper changes, wipes, and bottles of formula.  You sense that other beings like you are getting what you want more than anything, and you are missing out.  If that’s all you knew of life, would you want to live?  Incidentally, the hospital in question formed a group of volunteers to hold and talk to the boarder babies, until they could be placed in proper homes.  After that they all survived.

Back to my real point:  Attention is vital for life.  Without it we die; with it we thrive. You would not be alive to read this if you had been denied sufficient attention as an infant.  

As this website will explore, attention may be the invisible (a.k.a. dark) force of our world.  And, as I have suggested elsewhere (See Publications Page), the lack of positive attention may be the initial source of what we feel to be evil.  On the other hand, caring attention may prove to be the essential ingredient of all personal power and achievement.

If you think this subject is vast and worth exploring, welcome to the world of attending metaphysicians!

  

FYI – A recent Op Ed column in the New York Times by Nicholas D. Kristof  seems to illustrate my point rather convincingly.  It’s titled “Cuddle Your Kid!” and subtitled “What Romney and Obama can learn from rats and a teenage girl.”  Here’s the link:http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/21/opinion/sunday/kristof-cuddle-your-kid.html?_r=0