"My Intention" by Czelaw Milosz

One of my sons is taking a college English class this semester and asked if I had ever read anything by Czelaw Milosz. Not only had I not, I had never heard of the writer either. I asked my son to send me the piece and his analysis of it, and today I will respond to the piece only. I have not read my son's analysis yet. I wanted to write my own opinion before I turned to his. 

 

Milosz opening in "My Intention" echos the words of DesCartes from 1637, "I think, therefore I am." For DesCartes, it is the thinking that is important. For Milosz, it is in the fact of being. Both are minimalists, arriving at similar but different points for the proof of existence. Or maybe Milosz takes DesCartes' existence a step further, knowing that to be an island all alone is worthless. Knowing that the written words of others become mazes to be lost in, he realizes, by the end of the piece, that it is only in communication with others that we find our existence and fill it with meaning. For me to be here and you to be there is worthless, empty, hollow. It is in the dialogue between us that life takes on the meaning, colors, shapes that Milosz longs for. And this dialogue cannot be via text or email, or even on phones or FaceTime. Too much of being human is in the nuance of the eye in the corner, the motions of our hands during discomfort, the smell of our phermones when we think we see the shape of the one that moves us in all parts of our humanity. So many misunderstandings come from the written word, no matter how expert the writer. 

Think of Dr. Martin Luther King's speeches, listen to one by Senator Barbara Jordan of Texas, or pull up an old sermon by Rev. Billy Graham. Even though these are not dialogue either, they are a step closer than Milosz's written word. While Rev. Graham and I would have found common ground difficult even then, I was awestruck by his speaking ability as a 17 year old. My youth group had driven a couple of hours to hear him preach to a crowd of 75,000. At one point, aware that I could have heard a pin drop, I looked around and took in the fact that no one, NO ONE, in the crowd was moving. Not a scratch, not a sniffle, not a shuffle. Total stillness and total absorption. And I realized that this man had the power of speech no less than Adolf Hitler. While I am not saying their visions were the same, their intentions were. They both utilized their incredible ability to communicate to move people in the direction they wanted them to go. Instead of using their abilities to move people to be curious, to be open, to be flexible and to look for themselves, they used their abilities to funnel others onto the path of their own understanding.

Which brings us back to Milosz's "I am here." I am here, and I need to communicate with you, but I must do so in a way that honors that you are here also, and that your hereness is just as valid and important as mine. I cannot allow myself to get lost in my own or anyone else's maze, nor can I give myself permission to drag you into my here. My communication needs to be honest, open, as does my listening. And the hereness that we create between us must encompass parts of both of us. This is what allows life to flourish. It generates change and growth and an expolsion of ideas that keeps us and the planet alive. 

So. Let's get together, face to face, for that cup of coffee or bowl of ice cream. Let's take that walk together at the lake, or spend the lazy afternoon floating down the creek. And while we do those things, let's talk to each other about things that matter. Real things. Pain, joy, hopelessness, hope. Because I am here, and I am glad that you are here, too.