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| Cover page photo: Cliff West and Doug Markhart
enjoy sharing their hobby at a meeting of the Longview-Kelso-Rainier Model
Railroad Club. |
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| A CHRISTMAS MEMORY -- by David Bell | ||
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| The Starry Heavens Above and the Moral Law Within by Alex Louise Whitman |
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| (Alex Whitman
is an instructor of English and Spanish at Lower Columbia College, Longview.
This essay is from her collection entitled "The
Wishing Trail: Essays from the Benchland Farm") Eighteenth-century German philosopher Immanuel Kant, one of the most influential thinkers of modern times, pursued a rich inner life, two ideas filling his mind with ever-increasing awe—”the starry heavens above and the moral law within.” These formed the basis for his philosophy,
which accepted the probability of a god and at the same time assigned responsibility
to people based on their own reason. A person who followed his instincts,
used whatever intelligence he was given, and possessed intrinsic goodwill
would serve the community out of duty, and because of his contributions,
the community would be better. One did a job simply because it needed doing
and because he was the one most qualified to do it. And, according to Kant,
since these attributes—instinct, reason, and goodwill—were
universal, everyone was worthy of the same high level of respect.This philosophy makes sense to me, for it is both spiritual and rational. I, too, have stood in awe on August nights, mesmerized by splendent stars or a pearly moon, my eyes unblinking and neck muscles cramped from arching backwards. The darkness and silence paralyze all but the spirit, a force leaping and surging as if the very energy from that infinite inkiness were striking all my synapses at once. In October I have lain flat on the central bench above Chicken Run, wrapped in warm wool blankets and gazing heavenward, holding my breath in expectation of a meteor darting across the sky, a silver streak, a bright blaze guaranteed to make my heart thump. I am not disappointed. I’ve stretched out on the ground down by the pond to watch the streaming aurora borealis, its silent movement undulating light and color against a firmament blacker than a raven’s eye. These empyrean phenomena, mysterious and distant shreds of heavenly flame, pierce the darkness then retreat. Inaccessible to us except in the imagination, like elusive thoughts they slip away before the mind can assimilate them. In the benchland mountains, nights like these were silent; even pond frogs refrained from song as if engaged in some kind of sacred amphibian prayer. In the blackness I was powerless, filled with wonder at the profound silence. I heard only the music of the spheres, a perpetual concert of stars and planets revolving around suns in untold numbers. Thirty and some years later, the night sky still holds for me the true and ultimate paradise, a superconscious state in an abstract place far beyond that which the rational mind can grasp, and which no words but those poetic can express. I find a deity here, a god of mystery and beauty, of goodness and peace, an incomprehensible god who guides and rewards, and for whom I need no evidence and no words. Kant’s moral philosophy reaffirms my own sense of mission. When something needs to be done and I am the one most qualified to do it, I shall. This is nothing noble or praiseworthy, but mere obedience. When called, I follow instinct, put my head to work, and draw upon the goodwill that arises out of a profound respect for the dignity of all life forms, from the most insignificant, nameless, dust-laden insect to the rare and showy mariposa lily. Authors’ Note: In the early 1970’s, my then-husband and I joined other back-to-the-landers of that era by purchasing a 200-acre farm in the mountains of Eastern Washington, 10 crow-miles from the Columbia River, which separates Stevens County from Ferry County in that remote corner of the state. Our purpose was to find the good life—a spartan, self-sustaining life founded on hard work, which, we believed, only the natural land could offer. The term “benchland” refers to the way in which tillage can occur on mountainous fields flat enough for a four-wheel-drive tractor to maneuver without toppling over. Chicken Run was a sled path named for the chickens that lived in a nearby henhouse. |
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