Nuggets of the New Thought

THE SOLITUDE OF THE SOUL

Lorado Taft's group – Description – Each stands alone – Each is in touch with every other – Soul communion in silence – Silence is the sanctuary of the soul – The oneness of life and its apparent separateness – The message.

In one of the rooms of the Art Institute, in Chicago, stands a remarkable group, by Lorado Taft, the sculptor, entitled "The Solitude of the Soul." The average visitor stops a moment and passes on, commenting on the beauty of the figures composing this group. A few hurry past, afraid to look at the figures, for they are nude – as naked as the human soul before the gaze of its Creator. (Some people are afraid of things not hidden by draperies – even the naked Truth shocks them.) But the man or woman who thinks and understands – stops long before this group, conscious that it tells the tale of a mighty truth.

Around a large rock, stand four human figures – two men and two women. They are so placed that but one figure is in full sight from any given point of view, although the connection between any figure and the two on each side of it may be seen. It is necessary to walk completely around the group to see the idea of the sculptor – to read the story that he has written into the marble.

Each figure has an individuality. Each stands alone. And yet each is in touch with the one behind, and the one before. Each one is connected with all, yet each one stands alone. One figure extends a hand to her brother just ahead of her, and on her shoulder rests the tired head of the brother following her. Hand in hand, or head on shoulder stand they, each giving to the other that human touch and contact so dear to the soul craving that companionship of one who understands.

Each face shows sorrow, pain, and longing – that longing for that complete union of soul with soul – that longing that earth-life cannot satisfy. And each feels and knows that the other has the same longing. And each gives to the other that comforting touch that says "I know – I know." Each face shows a great human love mingled with its pain. Each face shows resignation mingled with its grief. It is the old story of human love and human limitations. It is also a story of deeper import – the story of the soul.

Every lip is closed. Each man and woman is silent. And yet each understands the other. Soul is communing with soul, in the Silence. And in the Silence alone can soul converse with soul. Words cheapen the communication of soul to soul. With those who understand us well, we can best commune in Silence. Hand in hand – cheek to cheek – sit those who love well. The tale of love is told and re-told without a word. Words serve their purpose in conveying the commonplaces of life, but seem strangely inadequate to express the deeper utterances of the soul. The tale of love – the story of sorrow – needs no words. The soul understands the message of the soul – mind flashes the message to mind – and all is known. The fondest memory of the one whom you loved and lost, is not of moments in which he spoke even the most endearing words. The memory most sacred to you is that of some great Silence lived out with the loved one – some moment in which each soul drew aside its veil and gazed with awe into the depths of the other soul. Silence is the sanctuary of the soul. Enter it only with due reverence. Uncover the head – tread softly.

Each figure stands alone, and yet in touch with all the rest. Each is apparently separate and yet each is but a part of the whole. Each feels the frightful solitude which comes to the soul when first it recognizes what it is. And yet, in that dreadful moment each knows itself to be in touch with all of life. Each feels that intense longing for a closer soul union – a reunion of the separated parts of the whole. And yet each realizes the impossibility of the consummation of that desire at this time – and they show their grief – they place the head upon the shoulder of the other – they clasp the hand of the other – they touch the flesh of the other – all as a symbol of the desire for the union of the soul.

This group is a symbol of the oneness of life and its apparent separateness. A picture of the in-touchness of each part of the whole, with every other part. A story of the pain of the soul in its awful solitude – of its impotent striving for at-one-ment. A representation of the communion of soul with soul, in the Silence. A tale of the comfort and joy in the presence of another human form. A message of The Brotherhood of Man. All this – and more – is in this group.

I wonder if the sculptor saw it all, or whether he chiseled better than he knew. Sometimes the Divine in man causes him to write better – paint better – cut better – than he realizes. Others see much more in his essays, stories, poems, paintings, statuary, than the maker knew was there. And the man himself, after years have past again views his work, and wonders at the new story he reads there. He feels dazed at having portrayed truths of which he dreamt not while he worked. There are within us unexplored depths, of the existence of which we do not dream. And from these depths, now and then, rise into our consciousness beautiful thoughts – beautiful images – which we reproduce on paper – canvas – marble. We do not understand these things, and we join with others in the feeling of wonder inspired by the sight of the reproduction of that which came from the depths of our mental being. And some, who have grown closer to the Real Self within them, see beauties in our work to which we are blind. Not until the scales fall from our eyes, do we realize the full meaning of our work.

Some call this Inspiration. But those who have pierced the veil know that it is inspiration from within, not from without. It is the voice of the Divine spark within man, whispering to the consciousness which is struggling to know better that Higher Self – a whisper of encouragement and good cheer – a portent of the future – a glimpse of the distant light – a bestowal of a few crumbs from the table of the Spirit.

I know not, I say, whether Lorado Taft knew what he chiseled. I know not whether he is a man of deep spiritual insight. But this I do know, that this group, "The Solitude of the Soul" is the work of the Spirit within this man. And his work carries a deep spiritual message to those who are ready to receive it. And in years to come this message will be understood by thousands, for everyone who receives it to-day. This work shall live long after its maker has forsaken the earthly body that he now uses as an instrument. It will live because it carries a message – because it conveys a mighty truth.

JERRY AND THE BEAR

The Law's plan of developing an individual – Folly of clinging to old worn out sheaths – The story of Jerry and the Bear – Who Jerry was – He meets the Bear – The fight – The result – The consequences – The change in Jerry – The moral.

The Law, in its efforts to develop Man into a self-reliant being – into an individual – first tries the simpler plan of bringing a steady pressure to bear in the direction of gradual progress and growth, impelling the man to think and act himself into a more positive condition each day. After a while the man, feeling behind him the steady push of Life, and being conscious of the attracting power of the Absolute drawing him to higher things – leading him up the mountain path of Attainment – learns to trust the propelling and attracting power, and, ceasing his resistance, moves along in the direction of gradual unfoldment and growth. He casts off sheath after sheath – and grows. He does not attempt to impede or interfere with his development, but cheerfully and joyfully presses forward to his unfoldment. He finds pleasure in each stage, and should pain manifest itself he knows it as the growing pains of the child – a promise of greater things.

There are some, however, who seem determined to cling to their old sheaths, and resist the pressure of growth to the utmost. They are unable to withstand the steady pressure, and the attracting power, carrying them forward, and their resistance brings them much pain and friction, and they are pushed this way and that by the pressure of the growing Self, resisting and struggling all the time. The Law has several ways of dealing with these people, for their own good, and often, with a supreme effort, tears them from the surrounding sheath to which they are clinging and forces them into a broader and wider life, against their wishes and in spite of their struggles and cries.

Many of us, looking back over our past lives, smile as we recognize how we were forced into new fields of work and endeavor – how we were broadened out in spite of ourselves – how we were torn from our old surroundings and environments, in spite of our lamentations, reproaches, and cries, and placed amid new scenes and faces. This thing is repeated over and over again, until we learn the lesson and cease to be unduly attached to persons and things, and become willing to yield ourselves to the onward moving force and co-operate with the Law instead of opposing it.

Many men and women who steadily refuse to stand erect and assert their independence, are deliberately worked into a position where they must declare their freedom from the things upon which they have been leaning, and are forced to stand up and face conditions from which they have shrunk all their lives. The Law has a way of picking up those shivering mortals who stand around the river's edge, and throwing them into the stream, bidding them to strike out and SWIM. It prefers the easier way of teaching you to swim by degrees – of acquiring knowledge by easy stages – but if you refuse to learn in this way, it will resort to the vigorous plan just mentioned – but swim you must, one way or the other.

I am going to tell you a story – not a particularly pretty one, but one that will give you an idea of what I mean, and how the plan works. It's about animals – but many a truth has been conveyed by fables in which animals were the actors, and this homely little tale from the wilderness may convey to your minds the point of this talk better than do my words. Here's the story:

Once upon a time a man, away up in one of the Northwestern States, owned a dog named "Jerry." He was not very much on looks – and less in good qualities. He was not of any fancy breed – just Dog, that's all. He had drifted on to the farm from Somewhere and had been kicked and cuffed around in his early youth, until he was afraid to claim a right to live at all. He grew up into a worthless animal – snapped at by smaller dogs – bullied by those of his own size – looked down upon by all. He expected to be kicked by everybody in sight – and, of course, got kicked. (Men and dogs who go around expecting to be abused, always draw upon them the thing they fear and expect.) His tail seemed a magnet which attracted all the tin cans around that neighborhood. Pitying did not seem to do him any good – it only made him more miserable and abject than ever, just as it acts in the case of some people. The poor chap gradually dropped down to the lowest state of dogdom, and his case seemed hopeless. The farmer would drive to town every once in a while, and Jerry would sneak along under the wagon, in manner seeming to apologize for taking up even that space. His appearance would be the signal for all the dogs of the several farms along the road to chase down to the wagon, rout him out, and roll him over in the dust, the performance being repeated at every farm to and from the town. The farmer, at last, feeling that the dog was bringing his establishment into disrepute, and knowing that "Hopkins' Jerry" was becoming a township jest, determined to put an end to the animal's unhappy career. But Destiny intervened – possibly in order to give me a tale to point the moral of this talk – and to give you something to remember in trying circumstances.

Jerry strayed away from the farm one evening, being chased a part of the distance by some of the smaller dogs who delighted in bullying him. He traveled some distance from home and entered the woods. Bear tracks had been discovered in that region, and some of the boys had dug a pit, baiting it with some choice tid-bit pleasing to his bearship, and covering it over with a thin roof which would yield to a light weight. Jerry started across the roof, and in he went. Some hours after a young bear came sniffing around, and he, too, dropped in the pit. Then the trouble commenced.

The bear feeling infuriated by his unceremonious drop, reached out for Jerry and gave him a scratch which caused him to yell. The bear, seeing that there was no fight in his opponent, chased him round and round the pit, until it seemed only a matter of a few minutes more until the dog would be relieved of his misery. Things took an unexpected turn, however. The bear knocked Jerry over on his back, and began giving him the finishing touches. This seemed to bring to life the last remaining touch of self-respect left in the poor brute, and with a mighty effort he sprang straight at the bear's throat and gave him a bite in which was concentrated all the repressed bites of a lifetime. The bear, with a roar, sprang back to the other side of the pit. It was hard to tell which was the most surprised of the two, the bear at the sudden courage of his opponent, or Jerry at the fact that he could fight bear. The dog's self-respect and confidence went up nearly to par. The bear's caution adjusted itself accordingly. After a bit the bear cautiously worked his way over toward Jerry, but the dog snarled fiercely and showed his teeth. They had several rounds before things quieted down, and each time Jerry showed his mettle, and although he was badly scratched he had bestowed upon the bear several tokens of his valor. His self-respect and confidence was now an assured thing, and the bear treated him with considerable deference and consideration. After matters adjusted themselves, the bear and the dog each retired to their respective sides of the pit, and declared a truce.

In the morning the boys came to the pit, shot the bear and lifted Jerry out and carried him home. His tail was several inches shorter, and one ear was missing, and his body was scarred and scratched like the face of a Heidelberg student, but away down in his heart he felt good – and he showed it. The farmer, feeling proud of the animal, carefully nursed him until he was able to move around the house, and then allowed him to go out of doors. As soon as he appeared the other dogs made a rush for him, but something in his look caused them to keep at a safe distance, and they contented themselves with barking at him and keeping out of reach. He did not seem anxious to fight, but he had that look of confidence in his eyes that kept them where they belonged. He had ceased to fear. His tail no longer drooped between his legs, but was held aloft as is the tail of every self-respecting dog. And somehow, that tail did not have the attracting power for tin cans that had formerly marked it. The boys recognized that Jerry had advanced in the scale, and there was something about him that they liked and respected.

About ten days after the dog got well, the farmer took a trip to town, and Jerry accompanied him, trotting along in an unconcerned manner, alongside, behind, or any other place that suited him. As the first farmhouse was reached the dogs came rushing down to have some fun with our friend. They pitched into him as of yore. Something happened. The pack ran yelping back to the house for surgical attention – and Jerry trotted on just the same. This scene was repeated at every farm along the road, Jerry repeating the object lesson each time, finishing up his task by rolling into the dust the big bull terrier in front of the postoffice, who, heretofore, had been the terror of the town. The homeward trip was a triumphal progress for the dog, and all his old foes vied with each other in tail-wagging and other demonstrations designed to let Jerry know that they were proud to be his friends. But he paid little attention to them – he had developed into a canine philosopher. After that he led a happy life. He was not seeking fight, but no boy or dog seemed to seek fight with him. He had cast out Fearthought. He feared nothing that walked on legs. HE HAD MET BEAR.

Now, some of my critics will call the attention of their readers to the fact that I am advising fight. Not so, good friends. I am using this dog story as an illustration, and am trying to show you how the Law will sometimes force a man into tight quarters in order to bring out his courage and self-confidence. It knows the man "has it in him," and it proceeds to use vigorous methods to bring it out into action providing, always, that the man has not developed it before. When a man has been placed in a position where he faces the worst, and is compelled to grapple with the bear, he finds that he has reserve force within him of which he never dreamt before, and he puts forth all his energy to save himself. He finds that when he boldly faces the difficulty the difficulty seems as much afraid of him as he had been of it. He gains more confidence, until at last he beats off the foe, and rests secure in his own strength. He finds that to the man who has abolished Fear and who can smilingly face any situation, Fate is very respectful and obliging, although to the man who fears it is a tormentor. In proportion to a man's fear will be his troubles. When he reaches the position when he can laugh in the face of Fortune, he will find her ceasing her coquetries and falling desperately in love with him.

And after the man has met the great difficulty – fought the mighty fight – he finds that he has ceased to fear the little troubles and trials of life – he feels his strength – he knows his source of power. He holds his head erect and breathes in the pure air of heaven, and feels the warm blood tingling through his veins. He has found himself. HE HAS MET BEAR.

THE UNSEEN HAND

The consciousness of the hand – When it first was felt – Always there – Now as the hand of a father – Now as that of a mother – A lover – A brother – Always guiding – Always leading – A mystery – Some day we will know the owner of the hand.

I have felt the Unseen Hand – have been guided by it – have felt the kind but steady urge in the direction which it knew to be best, though my Intellect failed to see the beauty of the road toward which the Hand was directing me. For a time I rebelled against the impertinent interference of that which seemed to be a thing apart from me – a meddler – an unasked for helper. I had emerged from the dependent state – the state in which I thought it necessary to lean upon others. I gloried in my independence – my freedom – my ability to stand alone. Finding that it was good to stand alone – reveling in the joy of my new found freedom – rejoicing in the fact that the I AM within me was a reality – feeling within me the ecstasy that comes from the recognition of the reality of Individuality – I resented any interference from outside. But the pressure of the hand was still here – it would take my unwilling fingers within its own and lead me on – and lead me on.