"Metaphorical Times"

I sat in a Quaker meeting for worship this morning, after a couple of years of not attending Quaker meetings for personal reasons. One person stood and talked about a conversation she had had recently with some young Dominican adults. When one young person asked her what a Quaker meeting was like, she asked in return if any of the young people had any experience of sitting silently with others. One of the young people responded, "Fishing!"

This is a wonderful metaphor for a Quaker meeting. Whenever I attend a meeting for worship from now on, I suspect I will imagine us all (sitting on four sides of the room, facing the "empty" space in the middle of the room) as holding rods with our lines dipping into the silent emptiness (which becomes fullness) at the center. We all are linked to the same pool--what I like to characterize as the unconscious realm of spirituality. We all are seeking an image or a message from that pool, and if one of us succeeds in pulling up a message we share it with the others, almost like Christ sharing the few fishes with the multitudes. We are all then to some extent spiritually nourished in a good meeting for worship.

I start this new blog on metaphors with this particular metaphor, and in coming posts (soon!) I will develop the idea of metaphor and how it is used (or not) in everyday life. Why metaphor? I think it is an important missing link in much of our conversations with each other and with the natural and social worlds around us. And I mean "real" metaphor, not the superficial sense of metaphor that most people are aware of. (Yes, I am an English professor--you caught me!)

I'd just like to add here a poem by the great modern Irish poet W. B. Yeats--my favorite poem of his, which the comment in meeting today brought back to my mind.

"The Song of Wandering Aengus"

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped a berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Next time, a brief discussion of metaphor in this wonderful poem.

(Originally posted months ago.)