Who Says the Words?

“Who says words with my mouth?” This is probably the most profound question for introflective thought I’ve ever heard. It was posed to me through an ancient poem written by a 13th Century Persian poet, the Sufi philosopher Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, more commonly referred to as just Rumi today.

I heard this question, and I thought to myself, ‘Ok! I’ll play your silly game. Who does say words with my mouth?’ I shut my eyes, and went looking. I quickly found the mechanism for saying the words, but not the director. My modest and humble knowledge of brain housing group function and physiology assisted me in finding where the words were stored, but I didn’t find who strung the words together. I looked deeper.

I found myself standing on the stage of my mind. ‘You big dummy!’ I said to myself standing on the stage of my mind, ‘You are the one who says words with your mouth.’ However, if I am standing on the stage of my own mind talking to myself, then to whom is the me standing on the stage of my talking? This started a descending spiral of antilogic which I quickly abandoned.

Who does say words with my mouth? Who does see things with my eyes? Who does taste things with my tongue, and who feels things with my fingers? The mechanism The – I – That – Is – Me occupies perceives them, interprets them, and stores them in memory. These are all superficial functions. Where is the observer? I never did find The – I – That – Is – Me.

My own speculation is that the Observer is Consciousness. I also speculate that Consciousness is one of the Basic Constructs of the Cosmos, the others being Time, Space, Matter, and Energy. We all know that Humans, like everything else we discern, are made up of Matter, propelled by Energy, occupying Space, in Time. Consciousness is a little harder on which to grasp as it is that which actually does the discerning.

Carl Sagan proposed that Mankind is a mechanism for the Cosmos to gaze back on its self. I, myself, adhere to that proposal … and I’m really glad my own, particular belief system lacks the dogmatic restrictions which would prevent me from exploring the minds of ancient Sufi poets, and modern Atheist scientists.

I’ve provided a nice, jazzy, multi – media, Modern English interpretation of the poem Who Says Words with My Mouth? by Rumi for your enjoyment, below. And, just remember, you are spectacular.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2y8YSw7fUWw]

The Bengali Princess

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a young Marine Corporal. He was not too tall, but barrel chested, and thin waisted. There was a slow, drawling, Southern charm to his speech. The Sun in the places he’d been had baked his skin to a dark mahogany red. His beakish nose had been sportingly broken several times and each break had healed. The breaks of the nose had left it healed slightly off center, adding to his youthfully handsome face the air of ruggedness. Having come from an infantry battalion, the air of ruggedness he possessed otherwise had some basis in fact. Additionally, this young Marine looked pretty good in a uniform, and was generally squared away. All in all, this young Corporal was the epitome of a United States Marine.

The time was the early 1980s. The place was Calcutta, India, a very large city situated out in the jungles of the Bengal Plane. The young Corporal was me. I’d gone from hapless poverty to working in an American Consulate in about three very short and eventful years. I tend to think now that I was very full of myself at that time in my life, though I didn’t think so then.

Incidentally, I did get promoted to Sergeant a relatively short time later and moved on to an Embassy … not that being stationed at a consulate is diminutive.

To raise funds for the annual United States Marine Corps Birthday Ball, each Marine Detachment farmed out to the Department of State holds weekly parties in their Marine House. Each Marine House has a bar, and the parties focus around this feature. The parties are like a cocktail party, one doesn’t just walk into the Marine House without knowing someone at least familiar to the Marines. However, it’s like a regular bar on the street wherein one has to purchase their drinks. The party is called a TGIF, thank God it’s Friday, and I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.

Once in a while the Ambassador or the Consul General will pop in to show their support. However, in general, the TGIFs are a forum for the more junior members of the diplomatic community to network, and hone their diplomatic skills.

One Friday night during a TGIF, a fellow Marine and I were sitting at the bar. I noticed a girl. Her escort was introducing her around to those in attendance. The girl was ugly. She looked like someone had shaved a jungle monkey, wrapped it in a silk sari, and brought her to the Marine House as a guest. In fact, my ship mate and I were making jokes between ourselves about someone playing a practical joke by shaving a jungle monkey, wrapping it up in a silk sari, and bringing it to the Marine House. I’m sure we were not as discrete as we could have been, not that we should have been making fun of a guest anyhow.

When she moved on to greet another grouping of guests, I noticed this little jungle monkey wrapped in a silk sari floated with cultured grace across the room. Charming! Yet, the cloisterdly sophomoric giggles and wise cracks between my ship mate and I about the girl did not abate.

The girl and her escort made their way round to my ship mate and I sitting at the bar. Of course, we suddenly became the most gentlemanly and friendly of those present. I know for a fact that the girl didn’t buy into it, but she was very nice anyhow.

Up close, the girls eyes were bright and inquisitive. Every move she made was graceful. When she spoke, she had the voice of an angle with an alluring Ragite accent. She was a Siren. Suddenly, in the place in my head where cartoons are born, I saw in my future a house full of little jungle monkeys causing mayhem, each spoiled rotten by their father, and each sporting mahogany red skin and a very large, beakish nose. I think I’d fallen a little bit farther than in lust for this ugly young woman, whose initial presentation did very little justice to the depth of her person.

The girl was very polite, overly polite, and did not linger long with my ship mate and I. Despite my best efforts to get this girls attention again, and attempt to develop a relationship, she would have little to nothing to do with it.

A lot of what I talk about is reflective, how the person can better deal with themselves internally. However, we should not ignore the external World, and all it has to offer. In particular, we should not ignore the needs and feelings and accomplishments and potentials of our fellow Humans. Who knows what that bum on the street, down on his luck at the moment, may have in store for the benefit of Mankind, and who knows whether or not that jungle monkey you’re making fun of at a party is actually a princess sent to make your life full and happy.

Treat other people as though they are going to give you the best that they can, you might just get it out of them.

You are spectacular.

The Vista

My older sister Alisa died very recently. She is, and always has been one of my most favorite of people. Her sudden and unexpected death left me very sad. Like most people, I’ve had a lot of sadness in my life. Unfortunately, I do not deal with sadness well. However, I have developed a technique for dealing with sadness. I let The Observer take the helm, while the I that is me goes below decks to be distraught and hapless.

A few days later I was driving home from work in the late afternoon. The Observer said to the I that is me, ‘Come on up here and look at this!’ So, the I that is me moped up and peered out the window of my eyes. The Observer said to the I that is me, ‘Now! That’s pretty, isn’t it.’ And, it was. Broadly, for miles and miles in front was the dark green Nebraska countryside capped by a pale blue sky which, its self, was layered with delicate formations of fluffy white clouds. ‘Yes it is.’ the I that is me responded, ”Lisa is seeing this.’

When I heard what the I that is me had said, it made me step back and think for a moment. The I that is me didn’t say, ”Lisa should see this.’ The I that is me said ”Lisa is seeing this.’ It actually gave me a great deal of comfort.

My belief system dictates that life is a union of the material with the corporeal; specifically, matter, energy, time, and space with consciousness. When the two are no longer able to sustain one another each member of the team returns to its respective domain, no longer encumbered by each other.

I can travel to Alisas grave site, and see where her body is buried. It may be that she can travel to me, and enjoy the material World through my eyes. She has now fully rejoined with what those like me would call The Observer, others The Source, others still might call God.

In any event, this is yet another reason we should choose to be happy, positive, and find the beauty in all things. You may have your own Alisa wanting to catch a glimpse at a broad and beautiful horizon. She may not be inclined to come to your house when you’re in a foul mood, when you are seeing things as dank and despicable.

You are spectacular.