I feel as though I'd do myself, and my reflective nature, an injustice if I did not write about anniversaries at some point this weekend. So here I am: thinking, writing, listening to "Reign of Love" by Coldplay. You could say seeking inspiration, or just basking in the simple candor of a fair Sunday afternoon. The two are the same as far as I am concerned.
Yesterday marked one year since I received my degree, and two months since I did a 180 in my life and decided to move back to Provo. Today is six months since I started my job.
Yesterday I bought my first car and moved, again. I think from now on, every year I must do something life-changing on August 13th. It's odd, that no matter how hard I tried to find the car that made the most sense, in the end I just bought the one that felt like my car when I drove it. Perhaps it's not so odd at that. I am a woman, after all.
I really am not in the mood to stroll down memory lane right now. I know that my saying so is probably triggering cardiac arrest for some of my readers. I'm not sure when the last time was that I was blogging and didn't feel like strolling down memory lane. Especially this weekend, when I have such an obvious excuse. I usually like to be dramatic when I reach milestones in my life--I reach back into the recesses of my mind and pull out some long string of memories, with which I measure my progress.
Today I am a little lost. Unsure of where I am, I am not able to measure "how far I've come". It is like waking up, late afternoon, in an unfamiliar field all by oneself. Perhaps it is likely to be a scary situation, and almost surely, as the sun begins to set, it will be. But, for now, all is serene, the light is perfect. It's "Golden Hour" when the day's tasks are over, the night has not yet set in, and the aesthetic begins to exist almost for its own sake. (note I say here 'almost'. I have my own theories on the subject of the independent nature of aesthetic pleasure, not to be delved into today).
(Insert here a mental picture of a chapel out by itself in a rich field [November Rain-esque])
Like that.
I feel that the word "inspiration" is often pushed into a corner and made to behave. As if people think something can only be inspirational if it is the bible, or has a strong moral premise. Surely these things are inspirational, and I do not seek to discount them here. I am merely suggesting that we broaden our usage of the term inspirational.
The other day, I was inspired almost beyond functioning by a small colony of ants. I was spending some time at a favorite haunt of mine, where I always find inspiration of some sort. No matter how hot it is, it is always the perfect temperature under the trees, on the grass. I had finished eating a bit of bread and a few crumbs had fallen to the grass. I crumbled them near the hill and watched as the ants encountered each bit of bread and struggled to take it to one of the many little pock-marks in the earth at the base of the tree. I hardly knew myself in that moment, yet there I was. No phone ringing. No emails to return. Just me, and the ants, and God.
Have you ever seen a collection of objects and suddenly wanted to create? A stack of books, letters tied with a ribbon, and suddenly I am on fire with bits of ideas that never fully ripen into mature creative sparks. Little spurts of inspiration--that sensing of something of beauty in surroundings that encourages an equal reaction in the soul. Inspiration. To breath into. To enliven, quicken.
We do so many things every day that do the opposite of inspire. They degrade and wear away at our sensitivities like so much cancerous rust. Sometimes we cannot help doing these things. They are our 'bread and butter', and we have made the adult decision to engage in these activities because we must. So it comes to be that if our souls are to survive, we must use the remainder of the day seeking inspiration in its many forms, and not wasting our time snorting baby formula. Golden hour is for inspiration, Golden Hour is ours before the day is ended. Golden hour is for lovers, mystics, poets, prophets, philosophers, sages, children, mothers and fathers, students and masters. Golden hour is for honest souls seeking transcendence. How often we let it go by without so much as a thought to its pleasures. How often we are "too tired" to find happiness in the time God afforded us to find it?
We are not to spend the day in indulgence, and doing "whatever we want". We are to accomplish what we must, but at the end of the day we still have our souls to answer for. Of all the mindless media and entertainment we could choose from, we ought to spend even our free time--especially our free time-- inspiring ourselves to some greatness, no matter how simple that greatness.
After all, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever" -John Keats
The President's House
I am fully aware that the title of this post is fairly dramatic.
This is not a political commentary. Indeed, it is not even about "The White House" or its policies as of late. I just wanted to ramble for a moment before calling it a day, going to bed, getting up, and starting all over again (with 55 voice-mails to return first thing).
On Sunday, as church let out, I bid farewell to my cousin who had to stay to an after-the-block meeting. I stepped outside, with the intent of heading immediately home and was promptly inspired to change my course by a surprisingly pleasant breeze. The term "surprisingly pleasant" can rarely be applied to August days in UT, so I had to take advantage. I headed north instead of south and began wandering familiar pathways. I stopped in to visit my favorite campus building, deriving the most impractical pleasure from the satisfying clamor my heels made in the wide, tiled, light-infused hallways, in all their vaulted glory. I watched the small groups of people in the courtyard, about their own business, and felt quite un-purposefully fulfilled.
I eventually (unconsciously) made my way to the "Former President's Home" on campus. I believe that the Holla
nds were the last ones to live there. I have never been inside, though I would probably be welcome to go in now that it has been demoted from a living, breathing home to some Graduate Studies building or other. The back gate was open, so I wandered into the back yard and sat decidedly on a stone bench, facing the back side of the house. As I sat there, pondering its understated beauty and enjoying the shade, I slipped into a sort of reverie that left me with the strange feeling that I was lost in someone else's memories for a time. Memories of some time unknown to me, and people equally, if not more-so, unknown.
Then I noticed the tree. Rather, I noticed its branches, and how close to the roof and a window some of them stretched. I imagined some young soul standing in that window, getting up some scheme to escape some tyrannical great-aunt. After all, doesn't everyone with such a tree and a window have a tyrannical great-aunt? I was so entertained by the thought, I did the only thing I know to do on such occasions... I snapped a picture on my cell phone. Then I used my hand to block out the signs of all other civilization for a while, and I took in this one thing as long as I dared stay in such a state of self-indulgent day-dreaminess. When the moment was passed, I headed home, where I fell onto the couch and into a fitful nap--dreaming of that great house, with all its promises of great-aunts and great childish schemes.
I suppose I may as well admit, as I have gone this far already, that I did not dream of the aunt as much as I dreamt of myself, living there, in some quasi-horrifically, unrealistic future scenario. I dreamt up the very most idiotically impossible life-plot in my head, and shamelessly reveled in it for quite some time, falling in and out of some other dream that I don't remember now. The details were hazy at the time, and in retrospect I remember very little, except that there was a small group of young children, in some never-ending state of childhood happiness, playing with a garden hose, oblivious to the hustle-bustle of the students walking past the stone fence. Some of the particulars were quite specific, but the feeling was simply "home" where everything you could ever need is all together, and can be perfect in an "old Polaroid photograph" sort of way. Luckily for my sanity, the nap was cut short by the entrance of cousin with news of some impending visitor and I was forced to snap out of it.
I cannot say whether or not I had a happy childhood, for I am unsure. I did in that I had plenty of siblings to play with, and though we fought in turn, we loved each-other more often than we were annoyed with one another. I can say that the over-arching feeling I have when I look back on my childhood is one of a longing to get out, and to be free to make my own choices. This feeling has always been with me, as dependent of a soul as I can be at times. I fear my own choices, and yet long for them in the wildest way. As though I were afraid that if I jumped off of the cliff, my wings wouldn't work after all. They are constructed rather shoddily I fear. Can't get too close to the sun or the sea, and I wish to taste both of them.
So for now I stay on the edge of the cliff, and dream of that little house, its perfect escape tree; those three little children, mud on their socks, grass in their hair; the sound on the front step that tells me he's home; and I try to work it all in to some future reality. For now, the reality is the 50 voice mails, and the kitchen table with the varnish wearing off, impending homelessness and the promise of a new day tomorrow, with no mistakes in it. Yet, give me a few hours and I can fix that in short-order.
Might I implore my reader not to do me the dis-honor of thinking that I am one of "those women" who thinks that once you are married and have children, everything is suddenly perfect. I have six married siblings, and over 15 nieces and nephews. I have five younger siblings, and was babysitting since I was old enough to do so. Almost all of my closest friends are married, and many of them have children. I realize it's not perfection. It's just perfection in the making. It's just godhood in the making. It's just the point of our very existence.
What is my job? Just something to get me through the days. Something to ward off impending insanity, pay the bills, "teach me something", prepare me for some career-based future that I hope and pray does not exist, etc.
I went to school to be a better person. Not to get a job. I do not want to "work" in the way that the world has termed "work". I want to work in my divine-given capacity. I want to make the biggest difference I could in the world, by starting where it matters most.
When I have children, I hope they get up schemes, and I hope they get mud in their hair, and I hope I lose my mind with how difficult it is. For then I will have lost it over something worth losing one's mind for.
Law firm: You're not worth it. Sorry.
This is not a political commentary. Indeed, it is not even about "The White House" or its policies as of late. I just wanted to ramble for a moment before calling it a day, going to bed, getting up, and starting all over again (with 55 voice-mails to return first thing).
On Sunday, as church let out, I bid farewell to my cousin who had to stay to an after-the-block meeting. I stepped outside, with the intent of heading immediately home and was promptly inspired to change my course by a surprisingly pleasant breeze. The term "surprisingly pleasant" can rarely be applied to August days in UT, so I had to take advantage. I headed north instead of south and began wandering familiar pathways. I stopped in to visit my favorite campus building, deriving the most impractical pleasure from the satisfying clamor my heels made in the wide, tiled, light-infused hallways, in all their vaulted glory. I watched the small groups of people in the courtyard, about their own business, and felt quite un-purposefully fulfilled.
I eventually (unconsciously) made my way to the "Former President's Home" on campus. I believe that the Holla
nds were the last ones to live there. I have never been inside, though I would probably be welcome to go in now that it has been demoted from a living, breathing home to some Graduate Studies building or other. The back gate was open, so I wandered into the back yard and sat decidedly on a stone bench, facing the back side of the house. As I sat there, pondering its understated beauty and enjoying the shade, I slipped into a sort of reverie that left me with the strange feeling that I was lost in someone else's memories for a time. Memories of some time unknown to me, and people equally, if not more-so, unknown.Then I noticed the tree. Rather, I noticed its branches, and how close to the roof and a window some of them stretched. I imagined some young soul standing in that window, getting up some scheme to escape some tyrannical great-aunt. After all, doesn't everyone with such a tree and a window have a tyrannical great-aunt? I was so entertained by the thought, I did the only thing I know to do on such occasions... I snapped a picture on my cell phone. Then I used my hand to block out the signs of all other civilization for a while, and I took in this one thing as long as I dared stay in such a state of self-indulgent day-dreaminess. When the moment was passed, I headed home, where I fell onto the couch and into a fitful nap--dreaming of that great house, with all its promises of great-aunts and great childish schemes.
I suppose I may as well admit, as I have gone this far already, that I did not dream of the aunt as much as I dreamt of myself, living there, in some quasi-horrifically, unrealistic future scenario. I dreamt up the very most idiotically impossible life-plot in my head, and shamelessly reveled in it for quite some time, falling in and out of some other dream that I don't remember now. The details were hazy at the time, and in retrospect I remember very little, except that there was a small group of young children, in some never-ending state of childhood happiness, playing with a garden hose, oblivious to the hustle-bustle of the students walking past the stone fence. Some of the particulars were quite specific, but the feeling was simply "home" where everything you could ever need is all together, and can be perfect in an "old Polaroid photograph" sort of way. Luckily for my sanity, the nap was cut short by the entrance of cousin with news of some impending visitor and I was forced to snap out of it.
I cannot say whether or not I had a happy childhood, for I am unsure. I did in that I had plenty of siblings to play with, and though we fought in turn, we loved each-other more often than we were annoyed with one another. I can say that the over-arching feeling I have when I look back on my childhood is one of a longing to get out, and to be free to make my own choices. This feeling has always been with me, as dependent of a soul as I can be at times. I fear my own choices, and yet long for them in the wildest way. As though I were afraid that if I jumped off of the cliff, my wings wouldn't work after all. They are constructed rather shoddily I fear. Can't get too close to the sun or the sea, and I wish to taste both of them.
So for now I stay on the edge of the cliff, and dream of that little house, its perfect escape tree; those three little children, mud on their socks, grass in their hair; the sound on the front step that tells me he's home; and I try to work it all in to some future reality. For now, the reality is the 50 voice mails, and the kitchen table with the varnish wearing off, impending homelessness and the promise of a new day tomorrow, with no mistakes in it. Yet, give me a few hours and I can fix that in short-order.
Might I implore my reader not to do me the dis-honor of thinking that I am one of "those women" who thinks that once you are married and have children, everything is suddenly perfect. I have six married siblings, and over 15 nieces and nephews. I have five younger siblings, and was babysitting since I was old enough to do so. Almost all of my closest friends are married, and many of them have children. I realize it's not perfection. It's just perfection in the making. It's just godhood in the making. It's just the point of our very existence.
What is my job? Just something to get me through the days. Something to ward off impending insanity, pay the bills, "teach me something", prepare me for some career-based future that I hope and pray does not exist, etc.
I went to school to be a better person. Not to get a job. I do not want to "work" in the way that the world has termed "work". I want to work in my divine-given capacity. I want to make the biggest difference I could in the world, by starting where it matters most.
When I have children, I hope they get up schemes, and I hope they get mud in their hair, and I hope I lose my mind with how difficult it is. For then I will have lost it over something worth losing one's mind for.
Law firm: You're not worth it. Sorry.
On living, Living, Transcendence, and Artistry
And then a slow lip of fire moves across the prairie with precision
While somewhere with your pliers and glue
You make your first incision
And in a moment of almost unbearable vision
Doubled over with the hunger of lions
'Hold me close', cooed the dove
Who was stuffed now with sawdust and diamonds
I am taking on more than I can handle in this post, and will not attempt to deny that such is the case. How is one supposed to say all that art is and means to them in a random blog post composed at a kitchen table in Provo, UT on a random Sunday afternoon?
Well, one isn't; and that is all just as well.
One year ago this coming weekend I graduated from the University with a degree that alleges an interest and a sort of proficiency (if you count taking a dice-sized cube off of the tip of an iceberg and sucking on it a while as proficiency) in the study of The Arts. I could row down a tributary here and go on for ages about how Universities started out with the study of Humanities and precious little else, but I shan't do so. There are many fields of study with a great deal of merit to them. Do I feel that what I did is more important than the feats being accomplished by those who aspire to be doctors or nurses? I do not. But perhaps right next to the importance and merits of living we find that only the importance of Living runs a close second.
Stay with me here, I am attempting philosophy (and preparing myself to fail miserably, I assure you.)
If one is merely living, what does that entail? Breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain. One does not even need to be conscious to be alive. Horrific thought.
Now, if one is Living what does that entail? Much of the same, I suppose--breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain--all still important. Perhaps the only real difference between living and Living is a little thing called purpose. It is breathing and knowing why. Everyone needs at least once in their life to experience the supernal transcendence of listening to the beat of someone else's heart. I mean the kind of experience that draws one to wordless, boundless weeping. Living is the brain firing neurons with some idea, with some inference, some connection and realization. Still higher, Living is the acknowledgment of deaf, dumb, stupefaction that accompanies transcendence, brought about for purposes of this paragraph, by pure artistic expression; almost a short-circuit of the understanding; of throwing one's hands up in the air and saying "I know not what it means, but in this moment I am moved beyond comprehension." Attempt to interpret is futile, if only for a moment, as that thrill starts somewhere inside of you and bursts out through every avenue and... I get carried away. The Mystic? I know. There she is again.
Let me re-group. My sister was a nanny for some months this summer and last. As is customary in her car, as well as in my own, the sounds of the singer/songwriter/harpist Joanna Newsom can often be heard floating out the open windows. I wish now that I could remember how old this child was, but one of the little girls asked her to play a song on the ipod one day. My sister decided to play a favorite of ours from the archives of great Newsom compositions, "Cosmia". Not the original, but the version with the Y's Street Band. She told the inquisitive child that the song was about a butterfly. Though this explanation is not true (the song is about Cosmia--moths) the little one was satisfied, and has long-since asked for the "flutterby" song to be played in the car at every opportunity. If you care to look up this song (though I don't believe that this actual version is on the internet anywhere, even in live form) or any other song of Newsom's you will likely feel slightly jarred by her style and poetry. You will not be alone in this sentiment, many people refuse to engage at all, which is, of course, their privileged.
Yet, that is my point. Perhaps it is unfair of me to draw conclusions from this child-like appreciation of the music. Yet, I do not feel it too far off to consider her reaction to be a typical reaction for a child. We are ever-ready to appreciate pure artistic expression as young children, before we have been taught what is "good" and "acceptable"; before we have been taught that we need to understand in order to appreciate. I mean that with both our own expression and that of others. I had a professor once who pointed out how children dance in public and hang their drawings on the fridge in a most uninhibited manner. At what point do we decide we are no good? At what point to do we begin to snub the expression of others? Isn't that a tragedy of the acutest nature?
Tributaries.
Back to Newsom. Some months ago, I found the following quote of hers in which she comments on the song "Cosmia". To say that this quote "changed my life" is trite and inconsequential in relation to the actual effect it had on me. I will let the reader decide for his or herself the merits of this quote:
"Like the whole record, 'Cosmia' affirms life without offering a wisp of false consolation. The thing that I was experiencing and dwelling on the entire time is that there are so many things that are not OK and that will never be OK again, but there's also so many things that are OK and good that sometimes it makes you crumple over with being alive. We are allowed such an insane depth of beauty and enjoyment in this lifetime. It's what my dad talks about sometimes. He says the only way that he knows there's a God is that there's so much gratuitous joy in this life. And that's his only proof. There's so many joys that do not assist in the propagation of the race or self-preservation. There's no point whatsoever. They are so excessively, mind-bogglingly joy-producing that they distract from the very functions that are supposed to promote human life. They can leave you stupefied, monastic, not productive in any way, shape or form. And those joys are there and they are unflagging and they are ever-growing. And still there are these things that you will never be able to feel OK about; unbearably awful, sad, ugly, unfair things."
I cannot even begin to unpack this in a single post. Perhaps I should only be quoting a portion here, but I genuinely feel the whole is necessary to appreciate the sentiment. I will focus in here on only a single thought: the idea what there are things in life that move you so far into the mode of Living that they almost interfere with living. Transcendence--(wishfully) getting above the banal and the inconsequential of eating, breathing, sleeping-- to a place that is, by description, indescribable.
That is what art is for. It is not to spark semi-interesting conversations in parlor rooms. It is not for acquiring and selling and trading on the black market. Such practices border and parallel prostitution. Yet, I am as guilty as being pretentious as the next on occasion. It is such a fine line. I want to get back to that child-like love of pure expression. Transcendent in that we do not care what others think of us or our expression--transcendent in that we are so inexplicably connected to something so inexplicably fixed outside of ourselves
C.S. Lewis, in his book "An Experiment in Criticism" mentions the relation of this "transcendence" in art to the transcendence we experience in other modes of life. In the last paragraph of this poignant, and hyper-insightful book he states, "In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do." (emphasis added)
Thus Lewis puts the experience and interaction we have with literature and other art in the same realm as love and religious worship. They are all things that require getting outside of ourselves, and outside of merely living into a higher state of Living.
I was never as interested as some in how people live, but rather in why they Live. That is why I studied what I studied. A year later, even working a job that I dislike as much as I do, I do not regret that decision. I have learned a great deal about living/Living in the last year. Life has taken me places I never thought to go, into the hearts of people I never thought to enter. I have not come out unscathed; the last year has not been easy on me, but I will continue to seek transcendence in all that life has to offer. Like the Negative Capability Keats rejoiced in, I will not try to make sense of everything, and always remember that sometimes Truth is something we experience and sense rather than understand.
I'm sure it all has a great deal to do with being mortal. For the time being, I pray that the simplicity and sincerity I find in art, in love, in moral action, and in religious worship will continue to propel me ever higher outside of myself, and into the inter-connectedness of all that is God's marvelous gift called Living.
While somewhere with your pliers and glue
You make your first incision
And in a moment of almost unbearable vision
Doubled over with the hunger of lions
'Hold me close', cooed the dove
Who was stuffed now with sawdust and diamonds
I am taking on more than I can handle in this post, and will not attempt to deny that such is the case. How is one supposed to say all that art is and means to them in a random blog post composed at a kitchen table in Provo, UT on a random Sunday afternoon?
Well, one isn't; and that is all just as well.
One year ago this coming weekend I graduated from the University with a degree that alleges an interest and a sort of proficiency (if you count taking a dice-sized cube off of the tip of an iceberg and sucking on it a while as proficiency) in the study of The Arts. I could row down a tributary here and go on for ages about how Universities started out with the study of Humanities and precious little else, but I shan't do so. There are many fields of study with a great deal of merit to them. Do I feel that what I did is more important than the feats being accomplished by those who aspire to be doctors or nurses? I do not. But perhaps right next to the importance and merits of living we find that only the importance of Living runs a close second.
Stay with me here, I am attempting philosophy (and preparing myself to fail miserably, I assure you.)
If one is merely living, what does that entail? Breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain. One does not even need to be conscious to be alive. Horrific thought.
Now, if one is Living what does that entail? Much of the same, I suppose--breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain--all still important. Perhaps the only real difference between living and Living is a little thing called purpose. It is breathing and knowing why. Everyone needs at least once in their life to experience the supernal transcendence of listening to the beat of someone else's heart. I mean the kind of experience that draws one to wordless, boundless weeping. Living is the brain firing neurons with some idea, with some inference, some connection and realization. Still higher, Living is the acknowledgment of deaf, dumb, stupefaction that accompanies transcendence, brought about for purposes of this paragraph, by pure artistic expression; almost a short-circuit of the understanding; of throwing one's hands up in the air and saying "I know not what it means, but in this moment I am moved beyond comprehension." Attempt to interpret is futile, if only for a moment, as that thrill starts somewhere inside of you and bursts out through every avenue and... I get carried away. The Mystic? I know. There she is again.
Let me re-group. My sister was a nanny for some months this summer and last. As is customary in her car, as well as in my own, the sounds of the singer/songwriter/harpist Joanna Newsom can often be heard floating out the open windows. I wish now that I could remember how old this child was, but one of the little girls asked her to play a song on the ipod one day. My sister decided to play a favorite of ours from the archives of great Newsom compositions, "Cosmia". Not the original, but the version with the Y's Street Band. She told the inquisitive child that the song was about a butterfly. Though this explanation is not true (the song is about Cosmia--moths) the little one was satisfied, and has long-since asked for the "flutterby" song to be played in the car at every opportunity. If you care to look up this song (though I don't believe that this actual version is on the internet anywhere, even in live form) or any other song of Newsom's you will likely feel slightly jarred by her style and poetry. You will not be alone in this sentiment, many people refuse to engage at all, which is, of course, their privileged.
Yet, that is my point. Perhaps it is unfair of me to draw conclusions from this child-like appreciation of the music. Yet, I do not feel it too far off to consider her reaction to be a typical reaction for a child. We are ever-ready to appreciate pure artistic expression as young children, before we have been taught what is "good" and "acceptable"; before we have been taught that we need to understand in order to appreciate. I mean that with both our own expression and that of others. I had a professor once who pointed out how children dance in public and hang their drawings on the fridge in a most uninhibited manner. At what point do we decide we are no good? At what point to do we begin to snub the expression of others? Isn't that a tragedy of the acutest nature?
Tributaries.
Back to Newsom. Some months ago, I found the following quote of hers in which she comments on the song "Cosmia". To say that this quote "changed my life" is trite and inconsequential in relation to the actual effect it had on me. I will let the reader decide for his or herself the merits of this quote:
"Like the whole record, 'Cosmia' affirms life without offering a wisp of false consolation. The thing that I was experiencing and dwelling on the entire time is that there are so many things that are not OK and that will never be OK again, but there's also so many things that are OK and good that sometimes it makes you crumple over with being alive. We are allowed such an insane depth of beauty and enjoyment in this lifetime. It's what my dad talks about sometimes. He says the only way that he knows there's a God is that there's so much gratuitous joy in this life. And that's his only proof. There's so many joys that do not assist in the propagation of the race or self-preservation. There's no point whatsoever. They are so excessively, mind-bogglingly joy-producing that they distract from the very functions that are supposed to promote human life. They can leave you stupefied, monastic, not productive in any way, shape or form. And those joys are there and they are unflagging and they are ever-growing. And still there are these things that you will never be able to feel OK about; unbearably awful, sad, ugly, unfair things."
I cannot even begin to unpack this in a single post. Perhaps I should only be quoting a portion here, but I genuinely feel the whole is necessary to appreciate the sentiment. I will focus in here on only a single thought: the idea what there are things in life that move you so far into the mode of Living that they almost interfere with living. Transcendence--(wishfully) getting above the banal and the inconsequential of eating, breathing, sleeping-- to a place that is, by description, indescribable.
That is what art is for. It is not to spark semi-interesting conversations in parlor rooms. It is not for acquiring and selling and trading on the black market. Such practices border and parallel prostitution. Yet, I am as guilty as being pretentious as the next on occasion. It is such a fine line. I want to get back to that child-like love of pure expression. Transcendent in that we do not care what others think of us or our expression--transcendent in that we are so inexplicably connected to something so inexplicably fixed outside of ourselves
C.S. Lewis, in his book "An Experiment in Criticism" mentions the relation of this "transcendence" in art to the transcendence we experience in other modes of life. In the last paragraph of this poignant, and hyper-insightful book he states, "In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do." (emphasis added)
Thus Lewis puts the experience and interaction we have with literature and other art in the same realm as love and religious worship. They are all things that require getting outside of ourselves, and outside of merely living into a higher state of Living.
I was never as interested as some in how people live, but rather in why they Live. That is why I studied what I studied. A year later, even working a job that I dislike as much as I do, I do not regret that decision. I have learned a great deal about living/Living in the last year. Life has taken me places I never thought to go, into the hearts of people I never thought to enter. I have not come out unscathed; the last year has not been easy on me, but I will continue to seek transcendence in all that life has to offer. Like the Negative Capability Keats rejoiced in, I will not try to make sense of everything, and always remember that sometimes Truth is something we experience and sense rather than understand.
I'm sure it all has a great deal to do with being mortal. For the time being, I pray that the simplicity and sincerity I find in art, in love, in moral action, and in religious worship will continue to propel me ever higher outside of myself, and into the inter-connectedness of all that is God's marvelous gift called Living.
North and South- 19th Century Musings
I watched a favorite film tonight. 'Twas one of those days where only the thought of coming home, and keeping to oneself all evening with a favorite movie can get one through. This selection was cousin's idea. Brilliant woman.
Funny, the last time I watched this film was New Year's Day. I remember the day well, and am almost surprised at having spent so many months not watching this movie. Yet, it is a slightly longer film, which has probably kept me from watching as often as I have some other favorites. This film makes me want to find that part of me that lives in 19th century England and do one of two things:
A) Bind it up irreparably and make it behave.
B) Give into it entirely and dress like Margaret Hale every day.
If I went with option B, I would have to ensure that most people around me died within a year of each-other, and I don't think I would get the chance to crack a single joke.
I think it would be good for me.
Anyway, as I watched, I wondered what it is about that time period that pulls at all of our sensibilities so. It is not as if the people in that time period were living easy lives, or that they did not see their share of misery. In fact, this film does a much-better job than others of its class in portraying the vile aspects of the period. The dirty streets, the dangerous mills, the riots, the sociopolitical turmoil. Why would we want that? What about the film, and so many others like it fascinates us so?
I have always believed that one reason for this phenomenon is the fact that we as human beings are (throughout different time periods) fundamentally the same--whatever time period we were born in. Many of the daily struggles were different then, but congruent to our own today. Trying to feed our families, and make it in a crazy world, find love, transcend cultural norms, be happy, etc. We have always fought for the same things, just in slightly different ways. It is like watching ourselves under different circumstances. Doing studies on human-ness. That is what I used to do every day of my University experience.
Yet I do believe that it goes deeper than that. I think we all just like the clothing they wore.
Terribly wicked of me. Did that just come out in this post?
Actually, I would assert that it has more to do with the fact that those were times vibrant with a different sort of.... doing. It required a certain amount of activity that today's world does not. I see the way that technology has worn our senses to the point that we do not see the world as vibrantly as they did. That is not to say that I believe that technology is evil (this post is brought to you by the makers of Apple Inc, etc) however, I think there is something about a technology-free world that piques our interests. We want to go back to the simplicity. It is not that those times were, in reality, more simple. I am not that naive. They were just less.... complicated.
As usual, the thoughts are not translating.
For instance. I've no idea how this computer works. It scares me sometimes to think of how little I know about the known world. There was a time (the time in question) in world history when things were not quite so unknown. Interestingly enough, one of the themes in this film is that of technology and its effects on human behavior. It focuses in on a time when the age of industrialization was beginning to blossom (does that word work?) over the empires, and the smoke had begun to pour into the streets from the factories, as well as the chimneys. The world had just started to open up to the newness of technology, and it seemed that one could keep on the outer edge of it, that one could comprehend what there was to comprehend, and "keep up"so to speak, with the technology. Or, one could completely let it pass by. It was an option to not engage. To go on knitting in the parlor and let the steam engine's clang by someone else's front door.
Today there are more ideas, bits of knowledge and technology than we know what to do with. The age of information is the age of the overwhelmed. There are so many causes, so many good and bad things to pour our time into that we hardly know what to do with ourselves. It is not merely a question of moving about in a small sphere, influencing one's friends and neighbors, working (if one was not a gentlemen), or managing one's affairs, etc.
Now there is so much to do we do nothing.
"I want to change the world, instead, I sleep." -Ingrid Michaelson
Well, now I am bringing Ingrid into it. This post has taken me places I was not expecting to go tonight. Such is the way with free-style thinking provoked by a favorite film. I think I just like the sound of the buttons on my keyboard clicking (especially as they are the evidence of the fact that I have so far triumphed over the "keyboard, low battery" warnings). If this were a school paper, I would fail. Good thing 'tis not.
These thoughts should be more organized, and should contain less talk of 19th century fashion. Forgive my in-eloquence and enjoy the following clip. It rips my soul in two every time. I wrote a whole paper on it Freshman year of college. I am quite sure I did not get a good grade on said paper, but I wrote one all the same.
Funny, the last time I watched this film was New Year's Day. I remember the day well, and am almost surprised at having spent so many months not watching this movie. Yet, it is a slightly longer film, which has probably kept me from watching as often as I have some other favorites. This film makes me want to find that part of me that lives in 19th century England and do one of two things:
A) Bind it up irreparably and make it behave.
B) Give into it entirely and dress like Margaret Hale every day.
If I went with option B, I would have to ensure that most people around me died within a year of each-other, and I don't think I would get the chance to crack a single joke.
I think it would be good for me.
Anyway, as I watched, I wondered what it is about that time period that pulls at all of our sensibilities so. It is not as if the people in that time period were living easy lives, or that they did not see their share of misery. In fact, this film does a much-better job than others of its class in portraying the vile aspects of the period. The dirty streets, the dangerous mills, the riots, the sociopolitical turmoil. Why would we want that? What about the film, and so many others like it fascinates us so?
I have always believed that one reason for this phenomenon is the fact that we as human beings are (throughout different time periods) fundamentally the same--whatever time period we were born in. Many of the daily struggles were different then, but congruent to our own today. Trying to feed our families, and make it in a crazy world, find love, transcend cultural norms, be happy, etc. We have always fought for the same things, just in slightly different ways. It is like watching ourselves under different circumstances. Doing studies on human-ness. That is what I used to do every day of my University experience.
Yet I do believe that it goes deeper than that. I think we all just like the clothing they wore.
Terribly wicked of me. Did that just come out in this post?
Actually, I would assert that it has more to do with the fact that those were times vibrant with a different sort of.... doing. It required a certain amount of activity that today's world does not. I see the way that technology has worn our senses to the point that we do not see the world as vibrantly as they did. That is not to say that I believe that technology is evil (this post is brought to you by the makers of Apple Inc, etc) however, I think there is something about a technology-free world that piques our interests. We want to go back to the simplicity. It is not that those times were, in reality, more simple. I am not that naive. They were just less.... complicated.
As usual, the thoughts are not translating.
For instance. I've no idea how this computer works. It scares me sometimes to think of how little I know about the known world. There was a time (the time in question) in world history when things were not quite so unknown. Interestingly enough, one of the themes in this film is that of technology and its effects on human behavior. It focuses in on a time when the age of industrialization was beginning to blossom (does that word work?) over the empires, and the smoke had begun to pour into the streets from the factories, as well as the chimneys. The world had just started to open up to the newness of technology, and it seemed that one could keep on the outer edge of it, that one could comprehend what there was to comprehend, and "keep up"so to speak, with the technology. Or, one could completely let it pass by. It was an option to not engage. To go on knitting in the parlor and let the steam engine's clang by someone else's front door.
Today there are more ideas, bits of knowledge and technology than we know what to do with. The age of information is the age of the overwhelmed. There are so many causes, so many good and bad things to pour our time into that we hardly know what to do with ourselves. It is not merely a question of moving about in a small sphere, influencing one's friends and neighbors, working (if one was not a gentlemen), or managing one's affairs, etc.
Now there is so much to do we do nothing.
"I want to change the world, instead, I sleep." -Ingrid Michaelson
Well, now I am bringing Ingrid into it. This post has taken me places I was not expecting to go tonight. Such is the way with free-style thinking provoked by a favorite film. I think I just like the sound of the buttons on my keyboard clicking (especially as they are the evidence of the fact that I have so far triumphed over the "keyboard, low battery" warnings). If this were a school paper, I would fail. Good thing 'tis not.
These thoughts should be more organized, and should contain less talk of 19th century fashion. Forgive my in-eloquence and enjoy the following clip. It rips my soul in two every time. I wrote a whole paper on it Freshman year of college. I am quite sure I did not get a good grade on said paper, but I wrote one all the same.
Odds and Ends... Or, The Capital Punishment of the Blogosphere Tonight
Just a few weeks ago, my dear cousin wrote a blog post. "Odds and ends" was the title. Sorry cousin, but copying seems very necessary here. How shall it begin? Uhhh... Aha!
I am a mildly ridiculous human being.
Going to work every morning is pure torture. Of course, there is always the weekend. Today was a lazy day, though somewhat productive in the morning.
Yesterday, however was not quite as good. Of course, accidentally falling asleep at 9 pm wasn't the best decision that could have been made for a good time. Unless one had to get up at 6:30 this morn, which was the case for myself. Right; it worked out then.
Mostly the days go by quickly. Every time the mistake is made to think there are still several good hours left in which to work, it turns out it's time to leave. So, psych! Someday the goals will be reached. After the second-coming probably. Good thing no one cares about silly work goals in the long run. Even though the chances of a badly-needed raise without hitting goals are slim.
Butter is so incredibly delicious. Even though it is fattening. For all that, it is is also quite pricey these days. Only the pure in heart still splurge for it. *Road rage enacted toward all those who find margarine acceptable*. Especially on toast (and don't ask me how "road rage" applies.)
Better yet, real butter in cookies is pure heaven. Unless it's just a bad recipe in general. Then probably nothing will salvage them; and nothing short of feeding them to a poor defenseless male who does not know any better will remedy the problem.
If someone offers to help you with your work, they probably just want to go to a work party and need the whole department to hit goal in order to go.
Wouldn't it be lovely if it rained every day? After all, rain is most thought-provoking and artistic, in my humble opinion. Seattle gets a lot of rain (said in a pout-y child-like voice).
Today grocery shopping happened at seven a.m. Hungriness had not yet set in, so it ended up being perfect. I might start doing that more often. Not that waking up that early on a weekend is ever going to happen again... Kangaroos might fly! In some universe. No? Guh.
Anyway. Buying a car is quite stressful. Obviously, there has been very little practice in my life where such activities are concerned. Understanding all of the ins and outs is undoubtedly not as difficult as it may seem at first. That is the way with most things.
Today one of my favorite earrings broke. Heavens be thanked for super glue! I now want to kiss and marry whoever invented it (ok, and be rich). Super, super glue.
Africa apparently grows fruit that makes us over in the "consumer nation" look younger. No really, it said so online. Dang blang, what will that wonderful continent think of next to save us all from looking a day over 25?
That being said, it would be so cool to go there. How much would a safari cost? Even in the event it was affordable, it probably wouldn't go over well with semi-high maintenance me.
Forever 21 is on of those stores that always promises to change my life, but rarely does. Actually, one time there was a pair of earrings there that changed my life. Cost me 2 dollars. That's why one must always go in there with some trusty scouts.
The rain this morning was absolutely delicious. Hurried though my morning may have been with all of its tasks, the weather was so satisfying. As it started, the groceries were just about all in the car. The rolling down of windows, and the blasting of a certain song *cough cough.... below* may have occurred.
I miss my cousin, who is on a trip right now.
Doughnuts are kind of gross. I mean, every time one crosses my path, it always looks so good. Don't get me wrong, it is good. Now. Tell me in five minutes when the nausea sets in why the dang doughnut was ever a good idea.
Most people are really cool when you get to know them. Even though that's practically all we have been told since we were children, it turns out to be startlingly true. As do most things we learned as children. Never ceases to amaze me.
Fact: it's Oceanology! (and, yes you can pat yourself on the back if you get that). Really it's both, according to señor google (who also gave me a little link to help out those of you who do not catch that).
Trains make the most horrifically gorgeous sound. Hearing a train first thing in the morning conjures such a romantic sensibility. If it were still normal to travel by train, you would be sure to find me regularly doing so. Sorry if you disagree.
Toads on the other hand are not horrific or gorgeous. Ok, they can be horrific, but never gorgeous, in a traditional sense.
Being 22 is not much different than being 21. Even though some people say it makes their teeth hurt when they are an "odd" number of years old. Crazy. Opposite for me. Most of the "odd" numbered years seem much more dramatic. Even numbers jut feel so bland.
African fruit, who would have thought the benefits one could gain?.. can't get over it.
Rice crispy treats are only good if they have too much marshmallow. Even then, they have to be very fresh. Give them a few days and you only eat them because they are there. Under what set of moral code is that a good reason to intake that much sugar? Laws! we will never know. Actually, bored eating is not something that has much plagued my life... too lazy for that. Reaching for the fridge handle is just too much when extreme boredom has ensued.
After certain hours of the night, someone needs to lock my computer. *Very severe boredom warning, and no food in sight!* Even with all of my accomplishments today. Need one say more than the word "accomplishments" to conger up images of great heroics? Understatement actually. Effortless with this face.
Fords seems like such sketchy cars. Only foreign-made for me. Ritzy, no?
Cold weather seems so inviting right now. Only, why wish for that when it is a beautiful summer evening out? Might have walked down the secret path today to the house of a dear friend. Might have walked over to the market for eggs with her and went right past the sketchy new waffle joint. Undeniably the best new place to eat in this whole town. Not to mention the live music they had going on. In the event my life gets that bad, have no fear, you will see me there. Could be a while. After all, this typing rampage is still tiding me over. Truth be told. I could go on like this for hours. Or... Not.
I really should just go to bed.
NEED more be said? (rhyme!)
Too many hours on computer this week. Overload of information.
STOP!
I am a mildly ridiculous human being.
Going to work every morning is pure torture. Of course, there is always the weekend. Today was a lazy day, though somewhat productive in the morning.
Yesterday, however was not quite as good. Of course, accidentally falling asleep at 9 pm wasn't the best decision that could have been made for a good time. Unless one had to get up at 6:30 this morn, which was the case for myself. Right; it worked out then.
Mostly the days go by quickly. Every time the mistake is made to think there are still several good hours left in which to work, it turns out it's time to leave. So, psych! Someday the goals will be reached. After the second-coming probably. Good thing no one cares about silly work goals in the long run. Even though the chances of a badly-needed raise without hitting goals are slim.
Butter is so incredibly delicious. Even though it is fattening. For all that, it is is also quite pricey these days. Only the pure in heart still splurge for it. *Road rage enacted toward all those who find margarine acceptable*. Especially on toast (and don't ask me how "road rage" applies.)
Better yet, real butter in cookies is pure heaven. Unless it's just a bad recipe in general. Then probably nothing will salvage them; and nothing short of feeding them to a poor defenseless male who does not know any better will remedy the problem.
If someone offers to help you with your work, they probably just want to go to a work party and need the whole department to hit goal in order to go.
Wouldn't it be lovely if it rained every day? After all, rain is most thought-provoking and artistic, in my humble opinion. Seattle gets a lot of rain (said in a pout-y child-like voice).
Today grocery shopping happened at seven a.m. Hungriness had not yet set in, so it ended up being perfect. I might start doing that more often. Not that waking up that early on a weekend is ever going to happen again... Kangaroos might fly! In some universe. No? Guh.
Anyway. Buying a car is quite stressful. Obviously, there has been very little practice in my life where such activities are concerned. Understanding all of the ins and outs is undoubtedly not as difficult as it may seem at first. That is the way with most things.
Today one of my favorite earrings broke. Heavens be thanked for super glue! I now want to kiss and marry whoever invented it (ok, and be rich). Super, super glue.
Africa apparently grows fruit that makes us over in the "consumer nation" look younger. No really, it said so online. Dang blang, what will that wonderful continent think of next to save us all from looking a day over 25?
That being said, it would be so cool to go there. How much would a safari cost? Even in the event it was affordable, it probably wouldn't go over well with semi-high maintenance me.
Forever 21 is on of those stores that always promises to change my life, but rarely does. Actually, one time there was a pair of earrings there that changed my life. Cost me 2 dollars. That's why one must always go in there with some trusty scouts.
The rain this morning was absolutely delicious. Hurried though my morning may have been with all of its tasks, the weather was so satisfying. As it started, the groceries were just about all in the car. The rolling down of windows, and the blasting of a certain song *cough cough.... below* may have occurred.
I miss my cousin, who is on a trip right now.
Doughnuts are kind of gross. I mean, every time one crosses my path, it always looks so good. Don't get me wrong, it is good. Now. Tell me in five minutes when the nausea sets in why the dang doughnut was ever a good idea.
Most people are really cool when you get to know them. Even though that's practically all we have been told since we were children, it turns out to be startlingly true. As do most things we learned as children. Never ceases to amaze me.
Fact: it's Oceanology! (and, yes you can pat yourself on the back if you get that). Really it's both, according to señor google (who also gave me a little link to help out those of you who do not catch that).
Trains make the most horrifically gorgeous sound. Hearing a train first thing in the morning conjures such a romantic sensibility. If it were still normal to travel by train, you would be sure to find me regularly doing so. Sorry if you disagree.
Toads on the other hand are not horrific or gorgeous. Ok, they can be horrific, but never gorgeous, in a traditional sense.
Being 22 is not much different than being 21. Even though some people say it makes their teeth hurt when they are an "odd" number of years old. Crazy. Opposite for me. Most of the "odd" numbered years seem much more dramatic. Even numbers jut feel so bland.
African fruit, who would have thought the benefits one could gain?.. can't get over it.
Rice crispy treats are only good if they have too much marshmallow. Even then, they have to be very fresh. Give them a few days and you only eat them because they are there. Under what set of moral code is that a good reason to intake that much sugar? Laws! we will never know. Actually, bored eating is not something that has much plagued my life... too lazy for that. Reaching for the fridge handle is just too much when extreme boredom has ensued.
After certain hours of the night, someone needs to lock my computer. *Very severe boredom warning, and no food in sight!* Even with all of my accomplishments today. Need one say more than the word "accomplishments" to conger up images of great heroics? Understatement actually. Effortless with this face.
Fords seems like such sketchy cars. Only foreign-made for me. Ritzy, no?
Cold weather seems so inviting right now. Only, why wish for that when it is a beautiful summer evening out? Might have walked down the secret path today to the house of a dear friend. Might have walked over to the market for eggs with her and went right past the sketchy new waffle joint. Undeniably the best new place to eat in this whole town. Not to mention the live music they had going on. In the event my life gets that bad, have no fear, you will see me there. Could be a while. After all, this typing rampage is still tiding me over. Truth be told. I could go on like this for hours. Or... Not.
I really should just go to bed.
NEED more be said? (rhyme!)
Too many hours on computer this week. Overload of information.
STOP!
Like a Handful of Balloons...
I think I might start marketing my blog as "an ode to the music that moves me". That seems to be nearly the only thing I talk about here.
Maybe it's my age bracket, maybe it's my personality.
Maybe it is the simple fact that music communicates faster to our souls than anything else, opening up a pathway for pure manipulation of our senses, emotions, and moods.
It's making me bipolar.
Here are two songs I have been particularly in love with as of late...
"Shadow Puppets" just happens to have been shot at the orchard where I recently did a photo-shoot (that post is forthcoming). I feel like many of the artistic elements in the film could have so easily been cheesy and overstated, but the song ties it together so perfectly. The final product is breathtaking. I first saw Emily (the pianist) at a concert in downtown Provo as part of the "Rooftop Concert Series". It was a sort of fuzzy atmosphere, and I remember I could hardly understand the words that she was singing, but the feeling her music left me with was a sort of fond, nostalgic way of looking at the future. As if I was having some pleasant memory of something that hadn't happened yet. Recuerdos del porvenir, or something equally romantic. (Ok, I have never read Recuerdos del porvenir, so I should probably not go around willy-nilly asserting it to be romantic.
As for the lyrical content of the song; I have long since had a deep affinity for balloons and the symbolism of balloons, and I, quite frankly, do not want to delve more into that right now; so let it suffice to say that I find "Shadow Puppets" to be an aesthetic treat in every way.
Then there is this:
I was introduced to "The Cave" by my little sister (in fact, she introduced me to "Shadow Puppets" as well) as "The motivational song of the century." That might be an understatement. You know when you simply need a song that will inspire you to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and maybe, I don't know, save a small kitten from a burning tree in the middle of an earthquake, or something equally heroic?
Some people call this song "formulaic" or "obvious". I think that Mumford and Sons decided to write it that way. I think they wrote it as straightforward as they did, not because they were not creative enough to be more abstract, but because they had something to say and they wanted to say it in a big, unmistakable way. Albeit, the video smacks of some political problem that I am too world-culture illiterate to pick up on, but this anthem to redemption, hope, and progression is one of the most exhilarating things I've heard in a time. I may or may not have recently fallen into a habit of blasting it loudly while driving to and from work. Heaven knows, I have been in need.
Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I just broadcast what I am listening to for all of the world. No better way to tell what's on an indie-kid's mind.
Not that I think I truly am an indie kid. Though I did go for a rejuvenating walk with my dear cousin this evening. We hoped it would rain and then when it did, I felt as I always do when it rains.
"But that's a story for another rainy day...."
Maybe it's my age bracket, maybe it's my personality.
Maybe it is the simple fact that music communicates faster to our souls than anything else, opening up a pathway for pure manipulation of our senses, emotions, and moods.
It's making me bipolar.
Here are two songs I have been particularly in love with as of late...
"Shadow Puppets" just happens to have been shot at the orchard where I recently did a photo-shoot (that post is forthcoming). I feel like many of the artistic elements in the film could have so easily been cheesy and overstated, but the song ties it together so perfectly. The final product is breathtaking. I first saw Emily (the pianist) at a concert in downtown Provo as part of the "Rooftop Concert Series". It was a sort of fuzzy atmosphere, and I remember I could hardly understand the words that she was singing, but the feeling her music left me with was a sort of fond, nostalgic way of looking at the future. As if I was having some pleasant memory of something that hadn't happened yet. Recuerdos del porvenir, or something equally romantic. (Ok, I have never read Recuerdos del porvenir, so I should probably not go around willy-nilly asserting it to be romantic.
As for the lyrical content of the song; I have long since had a deep affinity for balloons and the symbolism of balloons, and I, quite frankly, do not want to delve more into that right now; so let it suffice to say that I find "Shadow Puppets" to be an aesthetic treat in every way.
Then there is this:
I was introduced to "The Cave" by my little sister (in fact, she introduced me to "Shadow Puppets" as well) as "The motivational song of the century." That might be an understatement. You know when you simply need a song that will inspire you to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and maybe, I don't know, save a small kitten from a burning tree in the middle of an earthquake, or something equally heroic?
Some people call this song "formulaic" or "obvious". I think that Mumford and Sons decided to write it that way. I think they wrote it as straightforward as they did, not because they were not creative enough to be more abstract, but because they had something to say and they wanted to say it in a big, unmistakable way. Albeit, the video smacks of some political problem that I am too world-culture illiterate to pick up on, but this anthem to redemption, hope, and progression is one of the most exhilarating things I've heard in a time. I may or may not have recently fallen into a habit of blasting it loudly while driving to and from work. Heaven knows, I have been in need.
Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I just broadcast what I am listening to for all of the world. No better way to tell what's on an indie-kid's mind.
Not that I think I truly am an indie kid. Though I did go for a rejuvenating walk with my dear cousin this evening. We hoped it would rain and then when it did, I felt as I always do when it rains.
"But that's a story for another rainy day...."
On Ingratitude, Birds, and Wires
Today was a long day. The professional phrase "What are you talking about?" almost escaped my lips several times. You would think I'd learned more self control by now. OK. Tomorrow I will do better. I have decided that I have an interesting character flaw. That is, that I am a guilt ridden human being. I mean, is it really necessary to put myself through months of torture? I'm worried about work most of the time I'm at home, about what's going to happen with this or that client. You would think I would be past that by now. Today I think I only heard about every tenth word for each phone call I was on. I guess that some days are better than others. At least that's what reason tells me, per experience. I suppose that Life, liberty and the pursuit of Social Security benefits has me frustrated. I should just give up. My poor clients, they really don't comprehend all that they put me through. But, you know, that is how life goes. That's the very reason why it is important to put yourself in another's shoes. You're positive you have it hard, then someone who does not have what you have crosses your path, and then in that small moment you hate yourself, simply because their trouble is so horrific-- and then you cry, because you are so supremely grateful for your own misery, and then you vow to never complain again, and you vow that if you do God may smite you for ingratitude. Yet I always go back to that ingratitude. If only we could always remember--now and forever turn our heads and fix our eyes on what we have, and forget about everything that we don't need, and remember that so often "I" is unimportant. Oh what a bright, blessed day that would be. But for now, we go on. It's just you and me, dear reader. Pressing forward under all that must be accomplished each and every day. I want to believe that one day I'll get it right. That the "me" and "I" will stop meaning so much.
For now hopefully only comprehending every tenth word is good enough, and you might think you'd do better. If so, you don't get it. That's the point of life--the point of this.
On the same subject, but a different note, I have long since found a connection to my job in a song from an inventive, little-known artist. Radical Face's song "Glory" was written for me and my job, I am self-center-edly sure of it.
"A bird, caught in the wires
Pleading for help I can't provide, I'm not that big
I hope for the best but nothing changes, I'm sorry"
So, to all of my client's who will never read this. I am sorry. I wish I could change things. I wish I could fix things.
But that's another purpose of life. To see all of the big things we are too little to fix. To see all of the thousands of reasons that we need God.
Tens of thousands.
May He forgive me my constant, daily ingratitude.
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