after On Grand River, oil on canvas, 42” x 50 ½”, by Frank Weston Benson, c. 1920

High noon, the water bright as the idea
the man had thirty minutes ago
when he set sail in his canoe,
alone, long wooden pole in hand,
flinging his orange vest onto the seat,
seeking nothing but a certain slant
of light, not even a single fish,
in the midst of summer in 1920
and the Grand River:

Behind him is another life,
maybe a wife, maybe children,
wondering where he’s off to now,
prone to wander as he often is,
not far from home, never
in an untrue manner,
but still, disappearing on days like this
once the urgent work is finished,
glint in his eye giving him away

to the old dog, the only one
who catches him as he
grabs his hat and heads out back.
The hound knows this is no hunting trip
into the woods, no trek up the mountainside,
knows to stay put and return to his dreams
of raccoon chases and bones buried
within reach. What the man does
in the canoe is a balancing act:

As the blue-tailed damselflies flit and flash,
he hunches, slides the pole to the mud below
and pushes down, pushes forward,
pursuing the prism—Monet’s palette
of yellow, green, orange, purple,
and blue in every hue,
all rippling in the pines on the shoreline
and farther still, in the current yet to come,
something swift, something slow.

Kant argues that when you make a choice you must act “under the idea of freedom”…The point is not that you must believe that you are free, but that you must choose as if you were free. It is important to see that this is quite consistent with believing yourself to be fully determined.

 Korsgaard, Christine.  “Morality as Freedom.”  In Creating the Kingdom of Ends, Cambridge, 1996.

Act with the presupposition of being free
throughout all of the day’s emotion.
At no time should you let yourself only be

determined. Let your body know causality
in all things and still exhibit a wiser notion:
act with the presupposition of being free.

Let the human condition be a duality.
Though don’t forget Newton’s laws of motion,
at no time should you let yourself only be.

Let your good work not be bound in slavery
whether its engines be on land or ocean.
Act with the presupposition of being free.

Even should wheels of desire grind incessantly,
give Laplace’s demon no exclusive portion.
At no time should you let yourself only be,

so always then driven by love and study,
whether in form called to human or divine devotion,
act with the presupposition of being free.
At no time should you let yourself only be.

All my exhortations to show up
at the studio door, the desk, the page—
what’s missing still? The willingness
to pay attention to the everyday—to say
how last night the racket along the road
by the marsh was Hyla crucifer—
spring peepers lost in their urgent trilling,
mating songs so loud Will thinks
his tire bearings are giving out—
and we roll down the car windows
to listen to the sound that continues
even though we’ve stopped.

Three days into the school year—her thirtieth!—
And already she divines the full-grown men and women
Marked to inherit these slight torsos, these paste-slathered
Six-year-old hands.  Like Polynesian navigators sighting
Distant vessels in the lap of a single wave, or the crystal-eyed
Field marshal who reads an army’s fate, and an empire’s,
In far-off plumes of cannon-smoke, she listens as their
Tiny piping voices pledge allegiance to one nation indivisible,
Watches them tell and show tadpoles and shards of mica,
Studies their delicate, implausible features, and she knows
Who among her phalanx of rubber band-snappers and nail-biters
Will bring the planets to heel—or will at least try—
And which of her fragile-souled, hope-chocked charges
The universe will grind beneath its wheels like road salt.

In one boy’s handshake, she can feel herself purchasing
Aluminum siding, or a late-model Cadillac, or six billion
Pounds sterling of bearer bonds—and she will share these
Impressions on open school night.  Other revelations beg
More discretion:  Her two Michaels, B. and W., a dark,
mischief-grinned lothario, needing only the dashboard
To start counting his notches, and a rusty-mopped tub
With the panache of an embryonic podiatrist.  But boys,
Even stunted sops, remain boys.  Girls weigh upon her:
Catty, cliquish creatures whose feral friendships will
Sort themselves out along inexorable lines—pretty
And pretty enough and plain.  Soon the girls who are
Nearly pretty will drop their necklines, their panties,
Their expectations.   The homely girls will steel their
Scorned faces, clench their uninviting lips, and manage
Contingencies.  For instance, teaching kindergarten.
Yet she promises them they can yet become princesses,
Her task to protract this fleeting carefree interval between
Who these girls never were and who they never will be.