I am on holidays and have been for what must be 5 weeks by now. Without the formal structure imposed by work place routine, time seems to mumble by with an anxious lethargy. One wakes later than normal. Potters about. Listens to something. Watches something. Reads something. House work is done when circumstance necessitates. Efficiency is compromised. Productivity declines. And the days blur into weeks and it goes so quickly. Like sand slipping between the fingers. And perhaps this is all part of some greater cycle of energy accumulation and expenditure. Within the teaching field a simple program of rest and recover during the holidays, followed by terms of effort and work.
But I think there is more to it than that.
I often speak to my Drama students about the importance of being "present" when on stage, as well as while performing the most mundane tasks that daily life demands. Writ alone, this sentiment rarely inspires more than silent nodding and blank stares. But if we insist on further discussion, the value of "presence" on stage and what it has to teach us about how to live becomes apparent. The performed moment is a demanding one. Suddenly thrust before an audience, actor-students find themselves carrying the burden of delivering a story, from memory, using only their bodies, voice, the space and objects provided, often while working with other individuals. It is a terrible risk. Mistakes happen. Lines are forgotten. In the heat of the moment, actors over exert themselves and things fall apart. And audiences are hard to please. To ensure that a performance is interesting for an audience (though there is no guarantee), actors must be focused. They must listen to each other and themselves with the utmost attention. When watching sand run through his/her fingers, or gazing into the empty sockets of a human skull, the actor must engage with those lifeless shapes as though each were the most important thing in the world. To really invite an audience in; to make them believe in the power of the moment, an actor must be completely present in the performance of his or her art.
But how is this relevant for understanding how we might learn to live "better"? Michel Foucault has famously observed that each individual should consider their own life a "work of art". He writes:
"What strikes me is the fact that in our society, art has become something which is related only to objects and not to individuals, or to life. That art is something which is specialized or which is done by experts who are artists. But couldn't everyone's life become a work of art? Why should the lamp or the house be an art object, but not our life?"
In a similar vein, the Japanese Butoh dancer Kazuo Ohno believed that we should see our daily lives as a dance. He claimed that between the dance one performs on stage and the dance one performs in the kitchen, there is no distinction to be made. That is, in each moment of our lives, whether on stage or walking down the street, contemplating suicide or brewing a pot of tea, we must have life coming out of us. If we conceive each moment, with or without an audience, as a dance (or work of art), then we are present, engaged, and alive. We make it our own, and we do it on our own terms. Of course, students are usually quick to identify the difficulty in sustaining such a high level of "presence" day in day out. How exactly does one dance sleep? And sometimes when you've been at school/work all day, all you want to do is flop in front of the television and vague out. Being "present" can be hard and to do it all the time can seem impossible. I agree with the students on this point. Quiet time is essential. But there is rest and there is rest. Meditation is relaxing and rejuvenating, as can be a walk by the sea or sitting in the garden. Introspection and aloneness are essential to maintaining balance and wellbeing. But if we meditate with intent, or wander the streets with our eyes open, then we do so with presence.
These ideas are bound up with the awareness of life's finitude. As I have said to my older students, though we know not when or how, we are all going to die. And everyone we have ever met, known, kissed, punched or had a drink with is going to die. Though we banish it from conscious though, it is the cruel reality of the human condition. And it is what makes life sacred. It is why we must strive to make each moment count. It is why we must insist on being present. Just before he passed away, the co-founder of Butoh, Tatsumi Hijikata, summoned his friends to the hospital. When they had congregated around his bed, he told them that he knew that he was going to die and that he was going to do so very soon. As they stood by the walls and in the door way, he struggled up out of his bed and danced for them. He danced and he danced until eventually he collapsed onto the floor and died. He danced his own death, and in doing so he took ownership of it. Until the breath left his body and his heart stopped beating, he was completely alive. Completely present. This was his gift to his closest friends. This was his final teaching.
I'm aware that all of this stuff about death and presence might seem a bit morbid for a high school classroom. The finitude of life is rarely the conscious topic of dinner time conversation, and usually something we would prefer to ignore. But should we not at least try to be aware of the bigger picture? That death will happen and that without it life would become meaningless? Does this not provide the necessary perspective for living a life free(er) of unnecessary stress and anxiety, and for being able to really feel the beauty and the poetry of our experiences? We have to use our imagination to do so, but that sounds to me like an effective use of the creative mind. Is that not the real point of education? To be able to think, to reason, and to see things from multiple perspectives. To not be eternally trapped in our own narcissistic bubble, convinced that the peak hour traffic, jammed photocopier, screaming children and cockroaches are all part of some elaborate scheme to frustrate and inconvenience "us". To help students to see the sacred in physics, the dance of math, the science of language... phenomena that exist in an unforgiving world that continues to turn with magnificent disinterest in the worries of a species so small and insignificant. To infuse this world and these things with poetry and humour, music and movement... that is our power. That is what it means to think creatively.
Speaking less formally now, all of these ideas have sort of been blurted out onto the screen without my meaning them to. When I started writing, I thought I was setting the scene to discuss my recent experiences as a road runner in Bangalore. And of course, there is much to be said on that. I love to run in the rain, and have a regular circuit through the winding streets of Cooke Town. Noisy traffic and beautiful tree-lined roads, peppered with rubbish piles and children playing. Today I decided to take a longer run along the train line and through parts of Bangalore that feel almost rural. Cows scratch their shoulders against rusty pipes while old men smoke beadies on the step of their mud-brick homes. It is a cool, monsoonal Friday afternoon and perfect for getting soaked while soaking up the heady aromas seeping from Hindu temples and Indian kitchens. I wanted to stop and walk, but pushed myself to keep running. A truck stopped to offer me a ride, which I declined. School children waved and offered high fives, which I accepted.
Exhausted and happy, I have no idea how I will spend my evening. It is raining heavily so perhaps a quiet one at home. Whatever I do, I will endeavour to be present.
But I think there is more to it than that.
I often speak to my Drama students about the importance of being "present" when on stage, as well as while performing the most mundane tasks that daily life demands. Writ alone, this sentiment rarely inspires more than silent nodding and blank stares. But if we insist on further discussion, the value of "presence" on stage and what it has to teach us about how to live becomes apparent. The performed moment is a demanding one. Suddenly thrust before an audience, actor-students find themselves carrying the burden of delivering a story, from memory, using only their bodies, voice, the space and objects provided, often while working with other individuals. It is a terrible risk. Mistakes happen. Lines are forgotten. In the heat of the moment, actors over exert themselves and things fall apart. And audiences are hard to please. To ensure that a performance is interesting for an audience (though there is no guarantee), actors must be focused. They must listen to each other and themselves with the utmost attention. When watching sand run through his/her fingers, or gazing into the empty sockets of a human skull, the actor must engage with those lifeless shapes as though each were the most important thing in the world. To really invite an audience in; to make them believe in the power of the moment, an actor must be completely present in the performance of his or her art.
But how is this relevant for understanding how we might learn to live "better"? Michel Foucault has famously observed that each individual should consider their own life a "work of art". He writes:
"What strikes me is the fact that in our society, art has become something which is related only to objects and not to individuals, or to life. That art is something which is specialized or which is done by experts who are artists. But couldn't everyone's life become a work of art? Why should the lamp or the house be an art object, but not our life?"
In a similar vein, the Japanese Butoh dancer Kazuo Ohno believed that we should see our daily lives as a dance. He claimed that between the dance one performs on stage and the dance one performs in the kitchen, there is no distinction to be made. That is, in each moment of our lives, whether on stage or walking down the street, contemplating suicide or brewing a pot of tea, we must have life coming out of us. If we conceive each moment, with or without an audience, as a dance (or work of art), then we are present, engaged, and alive. We make it our own, and we do it on our own terms. Of course, students are usually quick to identify the difficulty in sustaining such a high level of "presence" day in day out. How exactly does one dance sleep? And sometimes when you've been at school/work all day, all you want to do is flop in front of the television and vague out. Being "present" can be hard and to do it all the time can seem impossible. I agree with the students on this point. Quiet time is essential. But there is rest and there is rest. Meditation is relaxing and rejuvenating, as can be a walk by the sea or sitting in the garden. Introspection and aloneness are essential to maintaining balance and wellbeing. But if we meditate with intent, or wander the streets with our eyes open, then we do so with presence.
These ideas are bound up with the awareness of life's finitude. As I have said to my older students, though we know not when or how, we are all going to die. And everyone we have ever met, known, kissed, punched or had a drink with is going to die. Though we banish it from conscious though, it is the cruel reality of the human condition. And it is what makes life sacred. It is why we must strive to make each moment count. It is why we must insist on being present. Just before he passed away, the co-founder of Butoh, Tatsumi Hijikata, summoned his friends to the hospital. When they had congregated around his bed, he told them that he knew that he was going to die and that he was going to do so very soon. As they stood by the walls and in the door way, he struggled up out of his bed and danced for them. He danced and he danced until eventually he collapsed onto the floor and died. He danced his own death, and in doing so he took ownership of it. Until the breath left his body and his heart stopped beating, he was completely alive. Completely present. This was his gift to his closest friends. This was his final teaching.
I'm aware that all of this stuff about death and presence might seem a bit morbid for a high school classroom. The finitude of life is rarely the conscious topic of dinner time conversation, and usually something we would prefer to ignore. But should we not at least try to be aware of the bigger picture? That death will happen and that without it life would become meaningless? Does this not provide the necessary perspective for living a life free(er) of unnecessary stress and anxiety, and for being able to really feel the beauty and the poetry of our experiences? We have to use our imagination to do so, but that sounds to me like an effective use of the creative mind. Is that not the real point of education? To be able to think, to reason, and to see things from multiple perspectives. To not be eternally trapped in our own narcissistic bubble, convinced that the peak hour traffic, jammed photocopier, screaming children and cockroaches are all part of some elaborate scheme to frustrate and inconvenience "us". To help students to see the sacred in physics, the dance of math, the science of language... phenomena that exist in an unforgiving world that continues to turn with magnificent disinterest in the worries of a species so small and insignificant. To infuse this world and these things with poetry and humour, music and movement... that is our power. That is what it means to think creatively.
Speaking less formally now, all of these ideas have sort of been blurted out onto the screen without my meaning them to. When I started writing, I thought I was setting the scene to discuss my recent experiences as a road runner in Bangalore. And of course, there is much to be said on that. I love to run in the rain, and have a regular circuit through the winding streets of Cooke Town. Noisy traffic and beautiful tree-lined roads, peppered with rubbish piles and children playing. Today I decided to take a longer run along the train line and through parts of Bangalore that feel almost rural. Cows scratch their shoulders against rusty pipes while old men smoke beadies on the step of their mud-brick homes. It is a cool, monsoonal Friday afternoon and perfect for getting soaked while soaking up the heady aromas seeping from Hindu temples and Indian kitchens. I wanted to stop and walk, but pushed myself to keep running. A truck stopped to offer me a ride, which I declined. School children waved and offered high fives, which I accepted.
Exhausted and happy, I have no idea how I will spend my evening. It is raining heavily so perhaps a quiet one at home. Whatever I do, I will endeavour to be present.
