Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
Perception
Perception
Yeah. I know. Many of us say that perception is reality, then walk away with the assumption that we have really absorbed the concept. We have forgotten that
there are many layers to most things and if we skip off down the road with the first hint of meaning, we will more than likely miss the essence of the thing we
pretend to understand. Maybe this is what is meant by the ditty that claims that a little knowledge is dangerous. On the other hand, there are also times when we
analyze and take apart things way past the point where they need to be disassembled to be understood. We complicate very basic notions. We confirm the
generally obvious with studies that support what some of us knew in the first place. But we validate the study because we have to. They generally cost a lot of
money and elegant truths somehow — to some, anyway — seem even more elegant when they contain multi-colored charts and graphs meticulously bound and
handed out at some austere body of decision-makers. But I digress. As is the case with most if not all things, it is a matter of balance. And therein rests our
constant challenge.
Here is one of my early perceptions: Every summer for about 10 years, I went to the same summer camp in the Catskill Mountains in New York State. I loved
that place. I knew it so well that I could traverse the land, on a moonless night, without tripping over a single log. Elko Lake was the name of the camp. I held
every conceivable position at the camp starting as a camper then eventually becoming a junior counselor, then counselor, then cook, then truck driver. I think
that camps can be wonderful places. One of my fantasies is to play a role in running a year-round camp for families, but that is another column. The lake, at Elko
Lake Camp, held a strange fascination for me. It felt friendly. I often took a canoe out to the middle of the lake and dove in with the belief that the lake would
protect me. I had total trust in the lake and the fact that I could not swim, at that time of my life, did not diminish this faith. Maybe the primary reason for my not
drowning was my unshakable belief that nothing bad could happen to me in the lake. That's how strong faith is.
I was quite fond of taking a canoe or rowboat out to the middle of the lake at dusk. I loved dawn and dusk when it was neither day nor night. The entire
universe is in perfect balance at those times. Sometimes I'd fish for perch or sunfish, but most of the time I'd just sit and inhale the glorious air around me, watch
mysterious bubbles break on the surface of the lake and marvel at the creatures that flew or crawled through the magical ether that blanketed the souls of all
living things. Each lily pad was essential to the well-being of the lake. Platforms for insects to feed on smaller insects. Landing fields for birds to swoop down and
eat the larger insects that ate the smaller bugs. And pristine flowers to remind humans and non-humans that it was all perfect.
It was on these solitary boating adventures that I first became fascinated by the birds that zipped around my boat and my head and careened in and out of
the growing evening shadows. At first, there were a couple of them. Then in a matter of seconds there were about one dozen. And shortly after that the lake and
sky were filled with wings fluttering frantically as I watched and half-way paid attention since I was more interested in the sound of the gentle waves lapping
against the side of my boat.
One evening, after I docked my rowboat, I was met by Robbie the nature counselor. He was holding a loosely balled up towel in his hands. We greeted each
other and he said, "I wish the campers were down here now. I doubt if any of them have seen a bat up close before."
I looked at him with a puzzled expression on my face because the closest I could recall to being near a bat was watching a Dracula movie, with Bela Lugosi, on
television. Robbie took a step closer and carefully rearranged the towel to expose a bat's head. Little furry face with a pug leathery nose and tiny glistening white
pointed teeth. I was terrified and must have jumped backwards about ten feet. Robbie was delighted with his find and continued to unfold the towel until he was
holding the bat by its outstretched wings.
"Where did you get that thing?" I asked almost shouting.
"Right at the edge of the lake. The place is full of them this time of day. I just swung my towel around in the air and it hit this one and knocked it to the
ground. Doesn't look like it got hurt though. Good thing."
"Do you mean to say that bats fly around with all those birds out over the lake?" I asked pointing to the swarms of things flying inches above the water.
"Those aren't birds out there," Robbie said. "They're all bats. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them."
I had been going to Elko Lake Camp for about seven years before that fateful, life-altering evening and bats had never entered my mind. And I had spent
countless hours on the lake or by the lake at dusk, my favorite time of day. I had thought that I had been sharing the peace and perfect balance of Nature with
birds for all those evenings. When in reality I was sharing peace and perfect balance with bats. But now the fear that resulted from my newly acquired knowledge
tipped the scales and the balance was compromised.
Perhaps perception is reality and maybe that's not such a bad thing. The perfect balance was not destroyed by the bats or even my eventual understanding
that the creatures I had believed to have been birds were actually little flying mammals that somehow managed to not get caught in my hair even though tens of
thousands of them had flitted past my head over the years. The balance was disturbed by my fear.
If perception is reality and we believe whatever we believe for reasons that can include things like laziness, tradition, habit or convenience — we can
create new perceptions, to replace the ones that appear to no longer serve a purpose, that help to create the kind of world we want to live in, and it all starts with
us and what we perceive as possible. What we perceive as real.
there are many layers to most things and if we skip off down the road with the first hint of meaning, we will more than likely miss the essence of the thing we
pretend to understand. Maybe this is what is meant by the ditty that claims that a little knowledge is dangerous. On the other hand, there are also times when we
analyze and take apart things way past the point where they need to be disassembled to be understood. We complicate very basic notions. We confirm the
generally obvious with studies that support what some of us knew in the first place. But we validate the study because we have to. They generally cost a lot of
money and elegant truths somehow — to some, anyway — seem even more elegant when they contain multi-colored charts and graphs meticulously bound and
handed out at some austere body of decision-makers. But I digress. As is the case with most if not all things, it is a matter of balance. And therein rests our
constant challenge.
Here is one of my early perceptions: Every summer for about 10 years, I went to the same summer camp in the Catskill Mountains in New York State. I loved
that place. I knew it so well that I could traverse the land, on a moonless night, without tripping over a single log. Elko Lake was the name of the camp. I held
every conceivable position at the camp starting as a camper then eventually becoming a junior counselor, then counselor, then cook, then truck driver. I think
that camps can be wonderful places. One of my fantasies is to play a role in running a year-round camp for families, but that is another column. The lake, at Elko
Lake Camp, held a strange fascination for me. It felt friendly. I often took a canoe out to the middle of the lake and dove in with the belief that the lake would
protect me. I had total trust in the lake and the fact that I could not swim, at that time of my life, did not diminish this faith. Maybe the primary reason for my not
drowning was my unshakable belief that nothing bad could happen to me in the lake. That's how strong faith is.
I was quite fond of taking a canoe or rowboat out to the middle of the lake at dusk. I loved dawn and dusk when it was neither day nor night. The entire
universe is in perfect balance at those times. Sometimes I'd fish for perch or sunfish, but most of the time I'd just sit and inhale the glorious air around me, watch
mysterious bubbles break on the surface of the lake and marvel at the creatures that flew or crawled through the magical ether that blanketed the souls of all
living things. Each lily pad was essential to the well-being of the lake. Platforms for insects to feed on smaller insects. Landing fields for birds to swoop down and
eat the larger insects that ate the smaller bugs. And pristine flowers to remind humans and non-humans that it was all perfect.
It was on these solitary boating adventures that I first became fascinated by the birds that zipped around my boat and my head and careened in and out of
the growing evening shadows. At first, there were a couple of them. Then in a matter of seconds there were about one dozen. And shortly after that the lake and
sky were filled with wings fluttering frantically as I watched and half-way paid attention since I was more interested in the sound of the gentle waves lapping
against the side of my boat.
One evening, after I docked my rowboat, I was met by Robbie the nature counselor. He was holding a loosely balled up towel in his hands. We greeted each
other and he said, "I wish the campers were down here now. I doubt if any of them have seen a bat up close before."
I looked at him with a puzzled expression on my face because the closest I could recall to being near a bat was watching a Dracula movie, with Bela Lugosi, on
television. Robbie took a step closer and carefully rearranged the towel to expose a bat's head. Little furry face with a pug leathery nose and tiny glistening white
pointed teeth. I was terrified and must have jumped backwards about ten feet. Robbie was delighted with his find and continued to unfold the towel until he was
holding the bat by its outstretched wings.
"Where did you get that thing?" I asked almost shouting.
"Right at the edge of the lake. The place is full of them this time of day. I just swung my towel around in the air and it hit this one and knocked it to the
ground. Doesn't look like it got hurt though. Good thing."
"Do you mean to say that bats fly around with all those birds out over the lake?" I asked pointing to the swarms of things flying inches above the water.
"Those aren't birds out there," Robbie said. "They're all bats. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them."
I had been going to Elko Lake Camp for about seven years before that fateful, life-altering evening and bats had never entered my mind. And I had spent
countless hours on the lake or by the lake at dusk, my favorite time of day. I had thought that I had been sharing the peace and perfect balance of Nature with
birds for all those evenings. When in reality I was sharing peace and perfect balance with bats. But now the fear that resulted from my newly acquired knowledge
tipped the scales and the balance was compromised.
Perhaps perception is reality and maybe that's not such a bad thing. The perfect balance was not destroyed by the bats or even my eventual understanding
that the creatures I had believed to have been birds were actually little flying mammals that somehow managed to not get caught in my hair even though tens of
thousands of them had flitted past my head over the years. The balance was disturbed by my fear.
If perception is reality and we believe whatever we believe for reasons that can include things like laziness, tradition, habit or convenience — we can
create new perceptions, to replace the ones that appear to no longer serve a purpose, that help to create the kind of world we want to live in, and it all starts with
us and what we perceive as possible. What we perceive as real.