Meditation: Chautauqua

If we lived in a world without sin; if the Sons of Ham had not turned our cities into redoubts of anarchy; and if the Disciples of Mahomet were not sharpening their scimitars in preparation for the devastation of Sunday school picnics across the land, then the entire world might well look like Chautauqua. There, all that is primly, quaintly, and politely White prevails. It prevails to such an extent that one can almost believe it possible that the world _could_ be like this -- that, on some higher metaphysical plane, it, in fact, _is_ like this. It is a world where all that is rough and coarse and malodorous has been smoothed over and purified; where even small children are subdued to a state of gentle frolic and soft murmurings. And above all, it is a world of Ideas, where adults placidly consider the issues of the day, gliding in slow motion along manicured brick paths from one lecture hall to the next, seemingly oblivious to the potential some of the ideas proposed therein have for disrupting what they consider the natural order of things. One senses that these ideas exist in a sphere of their own, removed for all time from the harshness of having to be tested by real human events. And it is not as though the people there are not of this world. They simply choose, and create, the world they will be part of, and allow the rest of humanity to do likewise – or so they would contend. One cannot call their ideas tyrannical; to fully realize that potential they would have to be refined through successive layers of educators and students, lawyers, politicians, and finally dictators – benign ones, of course. No, it would be impolite in the extreme to accuse the Chautauquans of expecting the rest of the world to live up to their standards. Clearly, the standards are not for the common man (as idolized as he may be in the abstract), and even less are they for the countless swarthy, sweating races with strange creeds and exotic customs that (it is rumored over afternoon tea) seem to exist elsewhere on the planet, but who are blessedly kept at bay by the twin gods of Ideas and Tolerance – their lights held high to blind pagan eyes.

Of all the possible demarcations of the rarefied high country that is Chautauqua, perhaps the most relevant is that between Ideas and Passions. On the one side, you have people whose lives are – or so they believe – driven exclusively by Reason, and whose strongest emotions are reserved for those occasions on which ideas bear fruit in abundance, which is to say bear more ideas, ad infinitum, in the manner of Russian peasant women in the Soviet era who were awarded heroes’ medals for bearing two dozen children. In fact, the only sort of fecundity that is approved in this region is the limitless production of ideas. On the other side, you have the coarser and more common variety of humankind whose meager acquaintance with ideas is limited to their use as mere rationalizations for feelings already run amok, and the inevitable disasters that follow.

It is tempting to accuse the Chautauquans of effete snobbery -- of let-them-eat-cake-ism -- of finding the rabble just too distasteful to be taken seriously. Why, when ideas could solve all the world’s problems – nay, could have prevented those problems from even germinating – should any quarter be given to people whose brains perpetually baste in a stew of undiluted hormones and adrenalin? They are to be pitied, perhaps, but certainly not given a place at the table. And, as far as the argument that the Chautauquans exist in a world that is not quite real -- in a sheltered cove of Reason – one could answer thusly: At what point in history did we acquire the notion that the mean and low – the sordid, squalid, and diseased – is more real, more authentic, than the more gentle world of ideas and good taste? Is this not, after all, a perversion of otherwise honorable democratic ideas and charitable impulses? Was it not, in fact, the world of ideas itself in which doubts began to form as to its own validity? When the perennial pursuit of the good, the true, and the beautiful ran up against the predations of revolution and irreligion; against the claims of the Common Man and his self-styled spokesmen; and against the spiral of misery that seems to entrap so many of our less-fortunate brethren, it seemed that the seekers-after-enlightenment had been outvoted once and for all, and that the polite thing to do was to drop all pretenses and tiptoe gently into the muck with the rest of humanity.

One could argue further that it has yet to be proven that the muck below is more real than – not to mention preferable to – the firmament above. And, if we were to subject each idea, as it came along, to a majority vote, we would still be living in caves and gnawing on the bloody haunches of wooly mammoths. A new idea is rare enough, but a good new idea is a pearl of great price. Most of us must be content to simply accumulate ideas, to act as custodians or archivists for the fruit of others’ mental labors. And this is the purpose for which Chautauqua seems to have been created; and it undertakes that effort in its most vigorous, overt, and concentrated form. The kiosks of Chautauqua are emblazoned with notices that the discussion of a New Idea is about to take place, that very day and just a stone’s throw away. And so the audience gathers, in an attempt to, once again, soothe the incessant itching of their minds.

But yes, for those of us who occasionally hear the call of the wild; whose nostrils flare at the scent of some atavistic effluence from wild marshes, the world of pure ideas seems sterile indeed. How, then, does one resolve this dilemma, if it is, indeed, a dilemma? One could start by recognizing the dual nature of Man, i.e. body and spirit, and that which of these has its hand on the tiller at any given moment seems as random as a toss of a coin. One could then reflect, with humility, on the fact that the world of ideas that Chautauqua represents is as far from the daily consciousness of the bulk of humanity as the doings of stars on the other side of the Universe. And yet, we must admit – with some dismay – that they are also human – fully human in fact -- despite their invincible ignorance, which they flaunt before more tender souls at every opportunity. (Yes, there is the occasional angry shout from the busy highway just outside the gate.) One would think that each side had something to learn from the other; but will they learn, and do they even want to? As things stand, if the occasional charmed individual breaks through the membrane into Higher Consciousness, he will be the exception. And the multitudes that are left behind will never know what they are missing, and this is, perhaps, the most galling thing. Because there is something – the hint of a shadow -- in the elitism of those who toy with ideas on a summer afternoon, a certain, perhaps wholly unconscious, awareness that they are among the Elect; they are those who See and Understand, as they sit under ancient trees like junior Buddhas listening to the words of the masters. And one would see a quiet eruption of indignation if the suggestion were made that this is, indeed, an elitist exercise being carried out behind the whitewashed gates of an elite community. Because that realization – or the merest hint thereof – might call the whole enterprise into question. If the consideration of ideas is meant to be good – not only for those doing the considering, but, by a sort of osmosis, for all of mankind, to the most distant shore – and yet the activity, by its very nature, is highly exclusive and bordering on the esoteric, then how can this alleged benefit be realized? How can the benighted multitudes be made to drink from the fount of wisdom? And if this cannot be realized, is it not delusional to persist? It might be more honest to fold one’s tents and go home. On the other hand, too strong a dose of humility could lead to despair, and a giving up of the project altogether, and that seems like a bad thing as well; no one wants to see these green lawns grow dry and brittle, and the well-tended cottages be left to the moths and termites. Shall we, then, allow the wretchedness of existence for some serve as an anchor on the ideas and aspirations of all? We know that collectivism notoriously achieves equality by reducing everyone to a state of equal misery. So a place must be found for those who would make new paths. But those should – one would think -- be leaders, or at least exemplars. I wonder if the insular world of Chautauqua is just too complacent and self-satisfied to produce the next radical – the next firebrand. Ironically, it seems that the institution in former times was better acquainted with activism. But now, all seems to have settled into torpor – a soothing pool of reassurance. Conspicuously missing from the scene, although one feels that they somehow belong: young women dancing across the lawn in diaphanous gowns, recalling some ancient pagan rite that was performed, side by side, with the poems and dramas of the great Greek masters. To have, and cultivate, the sacred without at least passing reference to the profane seems somehow sterile. But for this project to bear any true fruit, it must be informed by humility and recognition of what constitutes mankind in its full sense.