The eye of heaven looks down on the tomb of Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713), the first violin virtuoso and teacher of Antonio Vivaldi. The “eye” is a hole at the apex of the Pantheon’s dome. The place of internment honors the great Baroque musician and composer. His tomb intensifies the significance of the place.

The Pantheon is an architectural “wonder” because of its coffered roof. That arcing ceiling is the largest unreinforced cement dome ever built, and it has been a durable structure. The building’s present form is a third-generation Pantheon. The first two were partly destroyed, but this third building is approaching its 2,000th birthday. The entombed Corelli was not as physically durable as his resting place, but he left a monument in his music, the sounds of which can still be heard both directly and indirectly through his famous pupil’s music.

Which of these wonders is a place? The Pantheon stands still, rigid and strong. Corelli’s influence is a shifting monument. One has to go to the Pantheon to touch it. Corelli’s monument reaches out to touch us through electronic media and in concert halls. Close your eyes. Vivaldi is on the radio. Vivaldi is on movie soundtracks. Corelli’s influence is ubiquitous, but you might never have heard of him.

What about your personal Pantheon? Is it just the place where you are? Is your influence entombed in your house? My guess is that, like the widespread musical edifice of Corelli, you have extended what you are through many people in many places. You are the person who picked up a dropped dollar or package and handed it to the owner, and where you did that the eye of heaven now looks down through the memory of a kindness. The dome above you extends over all your acquaintances and all the places where you performed your acts of kindness. You are a durable edifice in your actions and words, possibly even in your musical rendition of a nursery rhyme you sang to a happy child. Yes, my guess is that the eye of heaven looks over you. The memory of you is entombed in many places, and the edifice of your life intensifies the significance of each of those places. 

As related in numerous books, magazines, TV documentaries, and movies, Howard Carter’s discovery of King Tut’s tomb focuses on a dramatic moment and a turn of events. Carter’s words upon opening the tomb and a supposed curse that touched those associated with the find make the stuff of both documentary and fiction.

Funded by Lord Carnarvon during a late nineteenth and early twentieth century fascination with all things Egyptian, Carter led an excavation team into the Valley of the Kings. After years of exploration into Egypt’s deep past, a search interrupted by WW I, Carter found an unopened tomb. Before he opened the tomb’s sealed door, however, he sent for his benefactor. Hey, for years the guy paid for the dig, why shouldn’t he be part of the discovery?

As the now oft-repeated story goes, Lord Carnarvon and his daughter stood behind Carter as the archaeologist punched a small hole through the tomb’s stone door to look inside. No one knew what to expect. Many such tombs had been robbed repeatedly over the millennia, so there was a chance that for centuries nothing lay behind the door. Holding up a candle to cast light through the hole, Carter squinted a look. An anxious Carnarvon then asked whether or not his archaeologist could “see anything.” Carter then made his now famous response: “Yes, wonderful things.” Carter was looking at a treasure of gold and artifacts buried and unseen for thousands of years.

The other part of the story is the supposed curse, a series of coincidental deaths that seem to follow the treasure. But Carter himself lived a fulfilling life, further excavating in Egypt, serving museums, and even traveling to the United States to lecture. He died in 1939 from lymphoma, a malady that strikes even those who aren’t famous Egyptologists. Opening a door to the deep past doesn’t necessarily carry any curse.

Moments like Carter’s discovery make for high drama, and we fictionalize them for that reason. But shouldn’t we also look into your deep past without any concern for a supposed curse? Yes, it is true that some tombs of our personal histories have been robbed of their treasures, but certainly not all. Couldn’t we look into the details of your life, discard any overlying layers of disappointment or failure, break a small hole in the door, peer through, and exclaim, “Yes, wonderful things”?

There’s a room in your past that houses the treasure of precious moments, those times when things “went right,” people smiled, and hope lay on the horizon. Be as persistent as Carter. Be the archaeologist of Self that breaks through a door you locked on the good moments in your past, yes, wonderful things. 

Laki, Then Eyjafjallajökull in 2010: We Don’t Map unless It’s Important.

If you are not aware of potential danger, you risk succumbing when the potential becomes the actual. In 1783, few people knew about the nature of geologic features and potential, geologically driven disasters. The “Father of Modern Geology,” James Hutton, was an eighteenth century naturalist who understood that the processes that shaped Earth continue to shape the planet. From mountain building to erosion, earthquakes to volcanic eruptions, landslides to subtle sedimentation, the processes pass inexorably from past through present to future. Hutton’s principle for this continuation of process is called uniformitarianism. His understanding led him to write, "We find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end." He knew the planet was very old and that it would become very much older. Hutton also knew that its processes would continue to both the detriment and benefit of its inhabiting organisms.

While Hutton was alive, Iceland’s Laki volcano erupted continuously over a period of eight months. The eruption was a disaster for Iceland. About a fourth of its residents died from an ensuing famine because the volcano produced about 80 million tons of sulfuric acid, and the resultant acid rain caused widespread crop failure. The disaster spread to England, also, where an estimated 30,000 people died because of poisonous gas and hazardous ash. And the rest of Europe was not immune. More than 100,000 people died on the continent as either the direct or indirect result of the eruption.


But, alas, memory’s short, and distant volcanoes don’t pose a threat in the minds of those who have not witnessed a volcanic eruption. So, when in 2010 an ice-­‐ covered Icelandic volcano called Eyjafjallajökull (EY-­‐ya-­‐fyat-­‐lah-­‐YOH-­‐kuhtl) erupted and sent ash toward the UK, travelers were surprised that thousands of flights had to be cancelled and that authorities asked residents to stay inside to avoid breathing the fine ash.

Is there a lesson in this? Maybe. At the very least the people affected by a distant volcano learn that they don’t have to live in the shadows of a “Vesuvius” or “Mt. St. Helens” to be jeopardized. Some events are global. Two key lessons are that we seldom learn what others have personally learned, and we don’t map a place until it is important to us. Laki meant nothing to the British, French, and Italians until they began to die. The same goes for Eyjafjallajökull and its interruption of flights. The latter volcano, thanks to both its filmed eruption and satellite images of its ash plume, lies in the mental map library of millions who are alive today, even though they can’t pronounce the name. Prior to their eruptions neither Laki nor Eyjafjallajökull would have been considered a part of Britain or Mainland Europe’s region in mental maps. We map what we consider to be important in either a positive or negative sense: things we gravitate toward and things we propel away from.

There’s a twofold lesson in this: By mapping and by examining our own mental maps we learn how we know both Self and World, and we learn what we know about Self and World.

I Map; Therefore, I Am (Isn’t That What You Meant, Descartes?)

There are lots of definitions of “human.” Here’s another: Humans are humans because they can map better and more complexly than any other kind of organism. Birds migrate; so do whales, salmon, turtles, and even horseshoe crabs. One doesn’t migrate without some type of mapping. Dogs can map a way home or to food on the other side of a fence. Obviously, animals have to map somehow, but their maps are limited to getting food, reproducing, and finding family and shelter; and their maps are used instinctively at one time or another for something necessary: go north in spring; go south in fall; run this way for safety, that way for food. Return to Capistrano or any migratory location. Humans, by contrast, map even the unnecessary, like the route to Capistrano to see the swallows return. Or even a route to Capistrano that is so indirect it includes scenery for scenery’s sake and takes an extra day to get there. It doesn’t matter what kind of map they make, physical or mental, humans map everything all the time, and they tie it to time.

Time, though secondary to place, is essential to mental mapping. We spend our lives mapping the finite world in complex relationships among brain, place, and history (culture).  Beyond our “animal-like” mapping, our human mapping occurs in the context of the culture in which we dwell. To use Aristotelian terms, mapping is an essence of being human, not an accident. For Descartes, it would be proof of existence: “I map; therefore, I am.” 

You could, only if you want, of course, invite a specialist to help you solve a problem. In matters of physical, emotional, and mental health, you might rely on various professionals to provide much of the assistance you need. Before you bring someone from the “outside” into your personal space, you would be well advised to do some research into what the “outsider” has to offer. Does the outsider have the qualifications you seek? Is the outsider trustworthy? Would the outsider have your concerns at heart?

In the mid-nineteenth century, Nicaraguans were at odds with one another over how their land should be run. Their odds grew into strife between two cities, León and Granada, and it had some nasty turns. To solve their problems, the people of León invited William Walker into the country. Walker was a brilliant and ambitious fellow, both a lawyer and a doctor, who had tried to conquer part of Mexico with a private army. That venture failed, but his reputation was widespread, so the Nicaraguans of León recruited him in their struggle against Granada. Walker did what they desired and defeated Granada, and then he took over the presidency and instituted rules and laws, including one that permitted slavery and another that made English the official language. Uh, Oh! Maldito! Things had not turned out as the residents of León had thought they would.

Recall those questions in the first paragraph above? Walker was qualified, but he was neither trustworthy nor concerned. Now remember a previous essay of mine, where I told the tale of Pyrrhus of Epirus. The people of Tarentum invited Pyrrhus into their city-state to wage war on the Romans. More than a couple of thousand years before the Nicaraguans suffered the intrusion of William Walker, the Tarentines found their lives changed for the worse by the rules and laws instituted by an outsider in control. Pyrrhus, like Walker after him, had his own interests had heart. Yes, he had the qualifications, but no, he wasn’t the trustworthy person Tarentines thought he was.

In both instances, nineteenth-century CE and twenty-fourth century BCE, the locals did not find ways to solve their own problems, and in both instances, they essentially gave away their freedoms and ways of life to a stranger. Now, maybe there are stories of outsiders entering the inside and solving problems without dire consequences for the insiders. Maybe you learned of such outsiders in some history class or through personal experience. If so, then on reexamination you should see that in such cases, the outsiders were qualified, trustworthy, and concerned.

Those you seek for help should be qualified, trustworthy, and concerned. When you find the outsider that fills those requirements, let that stranger in.  

Each of us is an explorer, but our most difficult explorations come when we are unenthused. Lack of enthusiasm is itself something to explore, as are spiritual dryness, writer’s block, and disinterest. In fact, searching the aforementioned is one of the most difficult kinds of exploration. Anyone can explore when discovery seems tangible, immediate, and valuable. How many of us can explore when nothing seems promising and gain seems elusive?

When life seems boring, explore the boredom. You have a story in your ennui. Think about it. A universe of action and potentiality swirls around you. There’s the noise of humanity and the noise of Nature. All is in motion, too. And there you are, bored. In boredom you are a still photo in a movie. You are the embodiment of the video technique stuck in motion (http://www.stuckincustoms.com/stuckinmotion/ ).

So, how do you explore when you are essentially standing still? You can do it by thinking or even writing about it. What do you think or write? Nothing will come at first; you’ll find yourself, since you are bored, facing a world swirling around your immobile position. But look at that closely. What is swirling around you? Explore that first. Explore its pace. Explore its spatial dimensions. How far out from your frozen position can you detect the motion of the “unbored”? How close in?  Oops! Pardon me. Someone just brushed by. But to where? And for what reason? Wait! I just asked questions. I’m not bored. I’m interested.

You will never be bored by curiosity, and your curiosity can lead to discovery. What will you find? Will it be worth the effort? Who cares? If you could predict the outcome of exploration, there would be no fun in it. Boredom can lead to the unexpected, and the unexpected is never boring. You have discoveries to reveal, even from the perspective of one stuck in the midst of motion.