So I've been thinking back the past few days on my discretion policy. The one I came up with, loosely, back when this thing was first going up.
I had the greatest intentions, really.
But you see, while there is a certain intimacy to be felt in the recounting of travels-what this blog originally set out to do-the bulk of the words are adjectives. Descriptions. Of Sounds. Smells. Puzzle pieces out of place. Me realizing that I am that missing piece. Soundtracks.
And while I have argued that these are the things that ground my memories of the EverythingElse-the thoughts, the feelings, the sharp inhalation of breath, the deep sighs and alltherestforwhichtherearenowords-and therefore worth the sharing, I think I have broken my own policy hear and trespassed into the world of Too Much Information. I have ventured far beyond descriptive adjectives of exterior and the safe distance they put between me, my thoughts, and the rest of the world.
In short: it's time for a revision of the discretion policy or at least reinforcement of it.
This blog has been the catalyst of a many great things. Like most great things, in typical opposition, there are disadvantages. The great things are too numerous to mention right now but I'll highlight the habit of writing in general, since most of the great things-as I see them-are derivations on that theme. This habit of writing has however, in some senses either handicapped me, aggravated a pre-existing handicapped condition, or made me aware of the existence of said handicap (the latter also having the potential for greatness if I use that knowledge to my advantage). Now I bet you're wondering what that handicap is, now.
Well, even if you're not, too bad. I'm telling you anyway.
The current diagnosis:
The patient suffers from an increased inability to process, organize, and express observations and feeling without the use of the written (or typed) word.
Symptoms are: Stuttering. Dyslexic speech. Avoidance of eye contact. Excessive use of hand gestures (without any formal training in sign language). Speaking in monotones due to the lack of visual punctuation marks while speaking (especially emoticons). Repeated conversations. Notebooks filled with urgent and really serious cheesy crap that should probably be burned.
(As a side note, today I was chatting with a friend who reiterated "how smart" I was, speaking of the overactive powers of my brain. Now, it seems like I've been getting that a lot lately. And can I just say that I'm kind of sick of it! Please don't take this the wrong way, I really am not that cocky. And I know it sounds that way. It's just that hearing this kind of thing adds and incredible amount of pressure you know: trying how to figure out how to not be intimidating when I don't believe that I am in the first place. Not to mention the fact that, no offense, in my mind really smart people are capable of more than what I am currently in the middle of. And shouldn't really smart people be able to learn more languages? Write chronologically and to the point? Form complete sentences without leaving out 5 or 6 words? Figure out how to get along with people? How to make their own decisions? How to process information without first counseling with at least 4 people and making them all hear the same sad circular stories and being paralyzed without their advice and yet refusing to take it most of the time anyway? I think people confuse smart with selfish some of the time. I also think I have really smart, really awesome, and really patient friends to whom I'm super grateful. But let me add here that the only reason I so much as remotely believe (which also leaves plenty of room for a huge and I mean mega amount of disbelief) that I am anything above average is the above list. Because I think that sometimes, really smart people end up being too smart to function. And as you can see, I have some work to do in the functionality department. So please, let's let that be the end of that. Everyone seems to mention this in worried overtones. And, well. Worry is like the germs on the mostly unwashed hands of my preschoolers. And by that I mean, catching.)
This blog has become the depository of thoughts. It embodies my efforts to organize them. And the line between therapeutic writing, entertaining writing, ambiguous writing (my infamous MonstrousLiar posts), and writing about the.things.that.really.matter has gotten rather blurred, I must say.
So, thanks to some inspiring words yesterday in Institute, I'm going to take the Great out of this blog and apply it to two other places. Namely, two other journals. Whether these journals will be electronic or not remains to be seen. They may be making the occasional cameo as MonstrousLiar posts (to further endorse Google; tease you; and validate myself that people actually do care about the idiosyncrasies which are so particular to me). But they may not, either. The point is, this here is the great divorce. From now on efforts to organize thoughts particular to my situation will be kept in one journal. Thoughts, feelings, lessons learned and all the rest will be kept in another. You know, the important stuff.
And the EverythingElse. Well, that is what can go on here.
And now I can justify journal shopping. Joy of JOYS!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
But better yet, I could use some good advice.
*This blog was started Saturday, September 11th. Incidentally, I ended up being social and leaving it unfinished until now. I can't recall what I ended up doing with my time. All I can remember about that day-apart from the obvious patriotic particularities-is that this is the day I didn't finish my blog. Probably shouldn't let that happen again. As I'm obviously traumatized.
I've been going through some sick blog withdrawls. Writing withdrawls, really. Committing certain aspects of my life to writing have helped me make them real. I look back at the last month and already I'm forgetting what happened, how I felt, and most importantly, what I've been thinking about. It seems like most of what goes on in my life-where the action is-is in my head. Now I know that sounds kind of mental but it's really not, I swear. But I ground and classify the days events by the thoughts I associated with them. So forgetting my thoughts feels like a loss of those days.
Anyway, I have a to do list the length of all my needing-to-be-sharpened pencils when they are lined up in a row. The thing is, I really really don't like feel like getting on it. I suppose it doesn't help that the first thing on said list is: find planner (so I can write my list down, obviously). By the way, I did clean what there was to clean in my room. Then I went for a run and tore it apart looking for my ipod running band. So the room has been re-cluttered and the band is still lost, thereby undoing the only productive thing I've done all day. Unless you count going running again, which I probably should. I should maybe mention here that I think my knee is better. Victory! Now I can start building up that mileage again. Joy of joys.
So here I sit, in a half empty room, smelly from my run but perfectly un-sweaty thanks to my new nike running gear. Might I add here that if nike wanted to pay me to advertise there stuff, I would gladly buy it and wear it all the time. Might I also add that my running capris look amazing. Which is great motivation to keep up running because if I don't well then, they won't look amazing anymore. Sounds like a fail proof plan to me.
So yes, back to me sitting. I got back to my apartment and was running over all the things I need to do. I was in serious turmoil because there's this part of me that feels the need to fill the whole day with busyness, productivity, efficiency and general lack of laziness. Then there's the other part of me that feels like I deserve a little lazy, don't I? Even if that lazy still feels ever so slightly like work. Like reading a book in Spanish. Watching a movie in French. Painting. Or better yet, getting caught up on my blog. The two sides of me, as always, put up a good fight. Then a voice of reason called a time out. Usually this voice is my mother's or my father's, whether in my head or on the phone. Today it happened to be my voice. I recalled this post: http://fromthebelltower.blogspot.com/2010_05_01_archive.htm in which I talked about the things that make me happy pretty much no matter what. And I realized that a to-do list complete with check marks next to every item does help me sleep at night, but it doesn't really bring me joy. If anything, it just makes me feel overwhelmed with the need to fill whatever time I have left and to do it effectively. Sometimes, I take my play way too seriously.
Maybe later on today I will be productive. Maybe later on today I will be social. I don't know and I'm not going to plan it out or write it down. It's time to take part of the "il bel far neinte. I feel like writing on this blog. I feel the need for some "intellectual and emotional indulgence" which doesn't require me to take several hours out of someone else's busy day to get it. I've been hearing a lot of really good advice lately. And I think it's time that I give myself time to commit it to paper or at least think about it. If I am going to insist on using a planner and having a to-do list, I should probably pencil in an hour everyday for unadulterated and guiltless thinking or blog writing. I may have been overly pampered in Colorado this summer as far as "me time" is concerned. Maybe an hour is a bit excessive. But then again, je suis excessive, moi.
So on with the advice. Or the conversations that led to my thinking. And don't expect closure. My thinking rarely wraps up nicely.
So a while back I finished Eat, Pray, Love. And maybe it was because at the time of my reading, I was rather embracing my more volatile side instead of denying its existence and so I felt like I really related this time around to the author. And I mean freakishly related to her. And whereas before I would find myself kind of annoyed that people said she reminded them of me, this time around I was utterly flattered. Obviously, Liz Gilbert's selling point is the sense of kinship-her book inspired, though probably not intentionally, vicarious living. The hate in my love/hate relationship with her comes from the fact that I want to live vicariously through my own life. I don't want to sit on the sidelines and read about someone else doing it, inspiring as that may be. So not only is she out there living her life and not someone else's, she's written and published a hugely successful book about it. Totally hate-worthy, right?
But even though the fact that I see so much of myself in her makes me feel like maybe I'm not that original after all and she's like the grown up, classier version of the me I will never grown up to be, I am grateful for the kinship factor. Because it makes me feel, cheesy as it may sound, less alone. I was reading on her website and came across this. It really describes a thought process I've had, especially last summer. And a big part of me still wants to subscribe to it. The difference being maybe that I don't know how serious I am about a "life of writing". I think I would be content to write something-one thing-that I feel really good about and that people hear about enough that a few people read and maybe it means something to them. Like "Quest for a Maid". Either way, her line of reasoning is scarily similar to mine, even if she is way more committed than me:
My current epiphany has been to go abroad only a few weeks on a "holocaust tour" of sorts. Because the holocaust has always fascinated me and because I think it would yield a different kind of touristic experience, all while not imposing on my social life.
A recent conversation with a friend brought home to me the fact that my indecision is due to the fact that I've got nothing to dream for, nothing to build up to. Another friend (coworker) alluded to the fact that this lack of a dream is because we are living it and our lives are so fulfilling in the present that it becomes difficult to anticipate and plan (for) a future in which we aren't satisfied.
And I am fulfilled. I really am. And yet.
Restless.
Which begs the question: do I simply lack a dream or do I instead need the opposite?: to take a step (a big one) outside of myself and really just get over myself and my myriad of interests and personal development and delicious management of my needs and my time and give up of all of egocentric efforts for the sake of helping other people. If only for the sake of becoming less of a control freak/hermit.
Which leads me to the end of my logic.
Some words by the great Henry B. Eyring:
"The thirst for education that comes with the change the gospel brings can be a blessing or a curse, depending on our motives. If we continue to seek learning to serve God and His children better, it is a blessing of great worth. If we begin to seek learning to exalt ourselves alone, it leads to selfishness and pride, which will take us away from eternal life."
I have a lot of motives to question. But I'm fairly certain that if it's a dream I'm lacking, it's because I am no longer satisfied with a dream that is merely self-serving and validating. Which is an aspect of my life that anything that were to take me away from school-the one place where I do feel like I do in fact give and contribute in some small scale-would inevitably magnify.
In the meantime, I have to get to it eliminating those pockets of time that don't serve anyone else and not really myself either. Talking on the phone might be one such habit. Facebook most definitely. Though I won't go all hard core and quit, I think it's time I enforce rules.
Again, Elder Eyring is applicable: "We too often fail to take advantage of the moments we spend waiting. Think of the last time you sat in a barber shop or a beauty salon or the waiting room of a doctor’s office. It is so easy to spend time thumbing through any magazine that is stacked on a table there. In fact, if you think about it, you will remember how you wondered where they get those out-of-date magazines. There is much valuable reading you could do if you took a book with you to fill those islands of time.
I've been going through some sick blog withdrawls. Writing withdrawls, really. Committing certain aspects of my life to writing have helped me make them real. I look back at the last month and already I'm forgetting what happened, how I felt, and most importantly, what I've been thinking about. It seems like most of what goes on in my life-where the action is-is in my head. Now I know that sounds kind of mental but it's really not, I swear. But I ground and classify the days events by the thoughts I associated with them. So forgetting my thoughts feels like a loss of those days.
Anyway, I have a to do list the length of all my needing-to-be-sharpened pencils when they are lined up in a row. The thing is, I really really don't like feel like getting on it. I suppose it doesn't help that the first thing on said list is: find planner (so I can write my list down, obviously). By the way, I did clean what there was to clean in my room. Then I went for a run and tore it apart looking for my ipod running band. So the room has been re-cluttered and the band is still lost, thereby undoing the only productive thing I've done all day. Unless you count going running again, which I probably should. I should maybe mention here that I think my knee is better. Victory! Now I can start building up that mileage again. Joy of joys.
So here I sit, in a half empty room, smelly from my run but perfectly un-sweaty thanks to my new nike running gear. Might I add here that if nike wanted to pay me to advertise there stuff, I would gladly buy it and wear it all the time. Might I also add that my running capris look amazing. Which is great motivation to keep up running because if I don't well then, they won't look amazing anymore. Sounds like a fail proof plan to me.
So yes, back to me sitting. I got back to my apartment and was running over all the things I need to do. I was in serious turmoil because there's this part of me that feels the need to fill the whole day with busyness, productivity, efficiency and general lack of laziness. Then there's the other part of me that feels like I deserve a little lazy, don't I? Even if that lazy still feels ever so slightly like work. Like reading a book in Spanish. Watching a movie in French. Painting. Or better yet, getting caught up on my blog. The two sides of me, as always, put up a good fight. Then a voice of reason called a time out. Usually this voice is my mother's or my father's, whether in my head or on the phone. Today it happened to be my voice. I recalled this post: http://fromthebelltower.blogspot.com/2010_05_01_archive.htm in which I talked about the things that make me happy pretty much no matter what. And I realized that a to-do list complete with check marks next to every item does help me sleep at night, but it doesn't really bring me joy. If anything, it just makes me feel overwhelmed with the need to fill whatever time I have left and to do it effectively. Sometimes, I take my play way too seriously.
Maybe later on today I will be productive. Maybe later on today I will be social. I don't know and I'm not going to plan it out or write it down. It's time to take part of the "il bel far neinte. I feel like writing on this blog. I feel the need for some "intellectual and emotional indulgence" which doesn't require me to take several hours out of someone else's busy day to get it. I've been hearing a lot of really good advice lately. And I think it's time that I give myself time to commit it to paper or at least think about it. If I am going to insist on using a planner and having a to-do list, I should probably pencil in an hour everyday for unadulterated and guiltless thinking or blog writing. I may have been overly pampered in Colorado this summer as far as "me time" is concerned. Maybe an hour is a bit excessive. But then again, je suis excessive, moi.
So on with the advice. Or the conversations that led to my thinking. And don't expect closure. My thinking rarely wraps up nicely.
So a while back I finished Eat, Pray, Love. And maybe it was because at the time of my reading, I was rather embracing my more volatile side instead of denying its existence and so I felt like I really related this time around to the author. And I mean freakishly related to her. And whereas before I would find myself kind of annoyed that people said she reminded them of me, this time around I was utterly flattered. Obviously, Liz Gilbert's selling point is the sense of kinship-her book inspired, though probably not intentionally, vicarious living. The hate in my love/hate relationship with her comes from the fact that I want to live vicariously through my own life. I don't want to sit on the sidelines and read about someone else doing it, inspiring as that may be. So not only is she out there living her life and not someone else's, she's written and published a hugely successful book about it. Totally hate-worthy, right?
But even though the fact that I see so much of myself in her makes me feel like maybe I'm not that original after all and she's like the grown up, classier version of the me I will never grown up to be, I am grateful for the kinship factor. Because it makes me feel, cheesy as it may sound, less alone. I was reading on her website and came across this. It really describes a thought process I've had, especially last summer. And a big part of me still wants to subscribe to it. The difference being maybe that I don't know how serious I am about a "life of writing". I think I would be content to write something-one thing-that I feel really good about and that people hear about enough that a few people read and maybe it means something to them. Like "Quest for a Maid". Either way, her line of reasoning is scarily similar to mine, even if she is way more committed than me:
I believe that – if you are serious about a life of writing, or indeed about any creative form of expression – that you should take on this work like a holy calling. I became a writer the way other people become monks or nuns. I made a vow to writing, very young. I became Bride-of-Writing. I was writing’s most devotional handmaiden. I built my entire life around writing. I didn’t know how else to do this. I didn’t know anyone who had ever become a writer. I had no, as they say, connections. I had no clues. I just began.
I took a few writing classes when I was at NYU, but, aside from an excellent workshop taught by Helen Schulman, I found that I didn’t really want to be practicing this work in a classroom. I wasn’t convinced that a workshop full of 13 other young writers trying to find their voices was the best place for me to find my voice. So I wrote on my own, as well. I showed my work to friends and family whose opinions I trusted. I was always writing, always showing. After I graduated from NYU, I decided not to pursue an MFA in creative writing. Instead, I created my own post-graduate writing program, which entailed several years spent traveling around the country and world, taking jobs at bars and restaurants and ranches, listening to how people spoke, collecting experiences and writing constantly. My life probably looked disordered to observers (not that anyone was observing it that closely) but my travels were a very deliberate effort to learn as much as I could about life, expressly so that I could write about it.
So there you have it-in someone else's words-a justification of my desire to travel. The question has now become: when I go away for months on end every summer and come back with only a few pages of writing to show for it, can writing really justify these travels? And when my French is already fluent, can I justify traveling for the sake of unnecessary improvement? Especially when these travels interrupt any semblance of a social life I might have...?My current epiphany has been to go abroad only a few weeks on a "holocaust tour" of sorts. Because the holocaust has always fascinated me and because I think it would yield a different kind of touristic experience, all while not imposing on my social life.
A recent conversation with a friend brought home to me the fact that my indecision is due to the fact that I've got nothing to dream for, nothing to build up to. Another friend (coworker) alluded to the fact that this lack of a dream is because we are living it and our lives are so fulfilling in the present that it becomes difficult to anticipate and plan (for) a future in which we aren't satisfied.
And I am fulfilled. I really am. And yet.
Restless.
Which begs the question: do I simply lack a dream or do I instead need the opposite?: to take a step (a big one) outside of myself and really just get over myself and my myriad of interests and personal development and delicious management of my needs and my time and give up of all of egocentric efforts for the sake of helping other people. If only for the sake of becoming less of a control freak/hermit.
Which leads me to the end of my logic.
Some words by the great Henry B. Eyring:
"The thirst for education that comes with the change the gospel brings can be a blessing or a curse, depending on our motives. If we continue to seek learning to serve God and His children better, it is a blessing of great worth. If we begin to seek learning to exalt ourselves alone, it leads to selfishness and pride, which will take us away from eternal life."
I have a lot of motives to question. But I'm fairly certain that if it's a dream I'm lacking, it's because I am no longer satisfied with a dream that is merely self-serving and validating. Which is an aspect of my life that anything that were to take me away from school-the one place where I do feel like I do in fact give and contribute in some small scale-would inevitably magnify.
In the meantime, I have to get to it eliminating those pockets of time that don't serve anyone else and not really myself either. Talking on the phone might be one such habit. Facebook most definitely. Though I won't go all hard core and quit, I think it's time I enforce rules.
Again, Elder Eyring is applicable: "We too often fail to take advantage of the moments we spend waiting. Think of the last time you sat in a barber shop or a beauty salon or the waiting room of a doctor’s office. It is so easy to spend time thumbing through any magazine that is stacked on a table there. In fact, if you think about it, you will remember how you wondered where they get those out-of-date magazines. There is much valuable reading you could do if you took a book with you to fill those islands of time.
It takes neither modern technology nor much money to seize the opportunity to learn in the moments we now waste. You could just have a book and paper and pencil with you. That will be enough. But you need determination to capture the leisure moments you now waste."
********************************
I had more good advice and thoughts to share on my digestion of said advice. But it got lost in the time between hearing it and writing this. So it's random and doesn't correlate, but I think I'll end with this, from my dear Paulo Coelho's Manual of the Warrior of Light:
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Alchemist. By Paulo Coelho
Not sure how to introduce this one. I was a little off put at first by the inornate language and simplicity of the words and imagery used. But that is what makes this book so powerful, in the end, really. It is a simple story of a boy in search for treasure. It doesn't seem terribly original or terribly engaging. But it subtly uncovers a philosophy about what treasure is and where it comes from that really rings true to me. Supposedly this is translated from Spanish. I really am thinking of getting the original text and rereading it while I improve my Spanish-the simple language here will be to my advantage. I'm really curious now to read other books by this author. Maybe my next will be in Spanish. Quien sabe.
I typed up the entire prologue. It's a really good illustration of what I tried to explain above about the marriage of simple language and complex philosophy. I was honestly thinking about this passage alone for days. Enjoy!
The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.
The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.
But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.
He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
"Why do you weep?" the goddess asked.
"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.
"Ah, it's no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."
"But...was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.
"Who better than you to know that?" the goddesses said in wonder. "After all, it was at your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!"
The lake was silent for some time. Finally it said:
"I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my bands, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."
What a lovely story, the alchemist thought.
******************
"What's the world's greatest lie?" the boy asked, completely surprised.
"It's this; that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what's happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That's the world's greatest lie." (20)
"Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is. At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yean for everything they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as times passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend." (23)
"That's the way it always is," said the old man. "It's called the principle of favorability. When you play cards the first time, you are almost sure to win. Beginners' luck."
"Why is that?"
"Because there is a force that wants you to realize your Personal Legend; it whets your appetite with a taste of success." (30)
"Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you," said the wisest of wise men. "The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon."
"Well, why don't you go to Mecca now?" asked the boy. "Because it's the thought of Mecca that keeps me alive. That's what helps me face these days that are all the same, these mute crystals on the shelves, and lucn and dinner at the same horible café. I'm afraid that if my dream is realized, Ill have no reason to go on living. You dream about your sheep and the Pyramids, but you're different from me, because you want to realize your dreams.
I just want to dream about Mecca. I've already imagined a thousand times crossing the desert, arriving at the Plaza of the Sacred Stone, the seven times I walk around it before allowing myself to touch it. I've already imagined the people who would be at my side, and those in front of me, and the conversations and prayers we would share. But I'm afraid that it would all be a disappointment, so I prefer just to dream about it." (57)
"I've had this shop for thirty year. I know good crystals from bad, and everything else there is to know about crystal. I know its dimensions and how it behaves. If we serve tea in crystal, the shop is going to expand. And then I'll have to change my way of life."
"Well, isn't that good?"
"I'm already used to the way things are. Before you came, I was thinking about how much time I had wasted in the same place, while my friends had moved on, and either went bankrupt or did better than they had before. It made me very depressed. Now, I can see that it hasn't been too bad. the shop is exactly the size I always wanted it to be. I don't want to change anything, because I don't know how to deal with change. I'm used to the way I am." (60)
"He still had some doubts about the decision he had made. But he was able to understand one thing: making a decision was only the beginning of things. When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision. (70)
"There is a universal language, understood by everybody, but already forgotten. I am in search of that universal language, among other things. That's why I'm here. I have to find a man who knows that universal language. And alchemist." (72)
"That's the principle that governs all things," he said. "In alchemy, it's called the Soul of the World. When you want something with all your heart, that's when you are closest to the Soul of the World. It's always a positive force."
He also said that this was not just a human gift, that everything on the face of the earth had a soul, whether mineral, vegetable, or animal-or even just a simple thought.
"Everyting on earth is being continuously transformed, because the earth is alive...and it has a soul. We are part of that soul, so we rarely recognize that it is working for us." (80)
******************
"God revealed his secrets easily to all his creatures. He had only one explanation for this face: things have to be transmitted this way because they were made up from the pure life, and this kind of life cannot be captured in pictures or words. Because people because fascinated with pictures and words, and wind up forgetting the Language of the World." (89)
******************
"I want to stay at the oasis," the boy answered. "Ive found Fatima, and, as far as I'm concerned, she's worth more than treasure."
"Fatima is a woman of the desert," said the alchemist. "She knows that men have to go away in order to return. And she already has her treasure: it's you. Now she expect that you will find what it is you're looking for."
"Well, what if I decide to stay?"
"Let me tell you what will happen. You'll be the counselor of the oasis. You have enough gold to buy many sheep and many camels. You'll marry Fatima, and you'll both be happy for a year.
You'll learn to love the desert, and you'll get to know every one of the fifty thousand palms. You'll watch them as they grown, demonstrating how the world is always changing. And you'll get better and better at understanding omens, because the desert is the best teacher there is.
Sometime during the second year, you'll remember about the treasure. The omens will begin insistently to speak of it, and you'll try to ignore them. You'll use your knowledge for the welfare of the oasis and its inhabitants. The tribal chieftain will appreciate what you do. And your camels will bring you wealth and power.
During the third year, the omens will continue to speak of your treasure and your Personal Legend. You'll walk around, night after night, at the oasis, and Fatima will be unhappy because she'll feel it was she who interrupted your quest. But you will love her, and she'll return your love. You'll remember that she never asked you to stay, because a woman of the desert knows that she must await her man. So you won't blamer her. But many times you'll walk the sands of the desert, thinking that maybe you could have left,..that you could have trusted more in your love for Fatima. Because what kept you at the oasis was your own fear that you might never come back. At that point, the omens will tell you that your treasure is buried forever.
Then, sometime during the fourth year, the omens will abandon you, because you've stopped listening to them. The tribal chieftains will see that, and you'll be dismissed from your position as counselor. But, by then, you'll be a rich merchant, with many camels and a great deal of merchandise. You'll spend the rest of your days knowing that you didn't pursue your Personal Legend, and that now it's too late.
You must understand that love never keeps a man from pursuing his Personal legend. If he abandons that pursuit, it's because it wasn't true love...the love that speaks the Language of the World." (120-122)
"The wise men understood that this natural world is only an image and a copy of paradise. The existence of this world is simply a guarantee that there exists a world that is perfect. God created the world so that, through its visible objects, men could understand his spiritual teachings and the marvels of his wisdom." (128)
"Why do we have to listen to our heart?" the boy asked, when they had made camp that day.
"Because, wherever your heart is, that is where you'll find your treasure."
"But my heart is agitated," the boy said. "It has its dreams, it gets emotional, and it's become passionate over a woman of the desert. It asks things of me, and it keeps me from sleeping many nights, when I'm thinking about her."
"Well, that's good. Your heart is alive. Keep listening to what it has to say."
During the next three days, the two travelers passed by a number of armed tribesman, and saw others on the horizon. The boy's heart began to speak of fear. It told him stories it had heard from the Soul of the World. stories of men who sought to find their treasure and never succeeded. Sometimes it frightened the boy with the idea that he might not find his treasure, or that he might die there in the desert. At other times, it told the boy that it was satisfied: it had found love and riches.
"My heart is a traitor," the boy said to the alchemist, when they had paused to rest the horses.
"It doesn't want me to go on."
"That makes sense," the alchemist answered. "Naturally it's afraid that, in pursuing your dream, you might lose everything you've won."
"Well, then, why should I listen to my heart?"
"Because you will never again be able to keep it quiet. Even if you pretend not to have heard what it tells you, it will always be there inside you, repeating to you what you're thinking about life and about the world."
"You mean I should listen, even if it's treasonous?"
"Treason is a blow that comes unexpectedly. If you know your heart well, it will never be able to do that to you. Because you'll know its dreas and wishes, and will know how to deal with them. You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it's better to listen to what it has to say. That way, you'll never have to fear an unanticipated blow." (129-130)
"Well, why did you say that I don't know about love?" the sun asked the boy.
"Because it's not love to be static like the desert, nor is it love to roam the world like the wind. And it's not love to see everything from a distance, like you do. Love is the force that transforms and improves the Soul of the World. When I first reached through to it, I thought the Soul of the World was perfect. But, later, I could see that it was like other aspects of creation, and had its own passions and wars. It is we who nourish the Soul of the World, and the world we live in will be either better or worse, depending on whether we become better or worse. And that's where the power of love comes into it. Because when we love, we always strive to become better than we are."
"So what do you want of me?" the sun asked.
"I want you to help me turn myself into the wind," the boy answered.
"Nature knows me as the wisest being in creation," the sun said. "But I don't know how to turn you into the wind."
"Then whom should I ask?"
The sun thought for a minute. The wind was listening closely, and wanted to tell every corner of the world that the sun's wisdom had its limitations. That it was unable to deal with this boy who spoke the Language of the World.
"Speak to the hand that wrote all," said the sun.
The boy turned to the hand that wrote all. As he did so, he sensed that the universe had fallen silent, and he decided not to speak. A current of love rushed from his heart, and the boy began to pray. It was a prayer that he had never said before, because it was a prayer without words or pleas. His prayer didn't give thanks for his sheep having found new pastures; it didn't ask that the boy be able to sell more crystal; and it didn't beseech that the woman he had met continue to await his return. In the silence, the boy understood that the desert, the wind, and the sun were also trying to understand the signs written by the hand, and were seeking to follow their paths, and to understand what had been written on a single emerald. He saw that omens were scattered throughout the earth and in space, and that there was no reason or significance attached to their appearance; he could see that not the deserts, nor the wind, nor the sun, nor people knew why they had been created. But that the hand had a reason for all of this, and that only the hand could perform miracles, or transform the sea into a desert...or a man into the wind. Because only the hand understood that it was a larger design that had moved the universe to the point at which six days of creation had evolved into the Master World.
The boy reached through to the Soul of the World, and saw that it was part of the Soul of God. And he saw that the Soul of God was his own soul. And that he, a boy, could perform miracles.
(152-3)
The alchemist said, "No matter what he does, ever person on earth plays a central role in the history of the world. And normally he doesn't know it."
The boy smiled. He had never imagine that questions about life would be of such importance to a shepherd. (160)
I typed up the entire prologue. It's a really good illustration of what I tried to explain above about the marriage of simple language and complex philosophy. I was honestly thinking about this passage alone for days. Enjoy!
******************
PROLOGUE
The alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.
The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.
But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.
He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
"Why do you weep?" the goddess asked.
"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.
"Ah, it's no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."
"But...was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.
"Who better than you to know that?" the goddesses said in wonder. "After all, it was at your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!"
The lake was silent for some time. Finally it said:
"I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my bands, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."
What a lovely story, the alchemist thought.
******************
"What's the world's greatest lie?" the boy asked, completely surprised.
"It's this; that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what's happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That's the world's greatest lie." (20)
******************
"Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is. At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yean for everything they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as times passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend." (23)
******************
"That's the way it always is," said the old man. "It's called the principle of favorability. When you play cards the first time, you are almost sure to win. Beginners' luck."
"Why is that?"
"Because there is a force that wants you to realize your Personal Legend; it whets your appetite with a taste of success." (30)
******************
"Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you," said the wisest of wise men. "The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon."
******************
"Well, why don't you go to Mecca now?" asked the boy. "Because it's the thought of Mecca that keeps me alive. That's what helps me face these days that are all the same, these mute crystals on the shelves, and lucn and dinner at the same horible café. I'm afraid that if my dream is realized, Ill have no reason to go on living. You dream about your sheep and the Pyramids, but you're different from me, because you want to realize your dreams.
I just want to dream about Mecca. I've already imagined a thousand times crossing the desert, arriving at the Plaza of the Sacred Stone, the seven times I walk around it before allowing myself to touch it. I've already imagined the people who would be at my side, and those in front of me, and the conversations and prayers we would share. But I'm afraid that it would all be a disappointment, so I prefer just to dream about it." (57)
******************
"I've had this shop for thirty year. I know good crystals from bad, and everything else there is to know about crystal. I know its dimensions and how it behaves. If we serve tea in crystal, the shop is going to expand. And then I'll have to change my way of life."
"Well, isn't that good?"
"I'm already used to the way things are. Before you came, I was thinking about how much time I had wasted in the same place, while my friends had moved on, and either went bankrupt or did better than they had before. It made me very depressed. Now, I can see that it hasn't been too bad. the shop is exactly the size I always wanted it to be. I don't want to change anything, because I don't know how to deal with change. I'm used to the way I am." (60)
******************
"He still had some doubts about the decision he had made. But he was able to understand one thing: making a decision was only the beginning of things. When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision. (70)
******************
"Everything in life is an omen," said the Englishman, now closing the journal he was reading."There is a universal language, understood by everybody, but already forgotten. I am in search of that universal language, among other things. That's why I'm here. I have to find a man who knows that universal language. And alchemist." (72)
******************
"That's the principle that governs all things," he said. "In alchemy, it's called the Soul of the World. When you want something with all your heart, that's when you are closest to the Soul of the World. It's always a positive force."
He also said that this was not just a human gift, that everything on the face of the earth had a soul, whether mineral, vegetable, or animal-or even just a simple thought.
"Everyting on earth is being continuously transformed, because the earth is alive...and it has a soul. We are part of that soul, so we rarely recognize that it is working for us." (80)
******************
"God revealed his secrets easily to all his creatures. He had only one explanation for this face: things have to be transmitted this way because they were made up from the pure life, and this kind of life cannot be captured in pictures or words. Because people because fascinated with pictures and words, and wind up forgetting the Language of the World." (89)
******************
"I want to stay at the oasis," the boy answered. "Ive found Fatima, and, as far as I'm concerned, she's worth more than treasure."
"Fatima is a woman of the desert," said the alchemist. "She knows that men have to go away in order to return. And she already has her treasure: it's you. Now she expect that you will find what it is you're looking for."
"Well, what if I decide to stay?"
"Let me tell you what will happen. You'll be the counselor of the oasis. You have enough gold to buy many sheep and many camels. You'll marry Fatima, and you'll both be happy for a year.
You'll learn to love the desert, and you'll get to know every one of the fifty thousand palms. You'll watch them as they grown, demonstrating how the world is always changing. And you'll get better and better at understanding omens, because the desert is the best teacher there is.
Sometime during the second year, you'll remember about the treasure. The omens will begin insistently to speak of it, and you'll try to ignore them. You'll use your knowledge for the welfare of the oasis and its inhabitants. The tribal chieftain will appreciate what you do. And your camels will bring you wealth and power.
During the third year, the omens will continue to speak of your treasure and your Personal Legend. You'll walk around, night after night, at the oasis, and Fatima will be unhappy because she'll feel it was she who interrupted your quest. But you will love her, and she'll return your love. You'll remember that she never asked you to stay, because a woman of the desert knows that she must await her man. So you won't blamer her. But many times you'll walk the sands of the desert, thinking that maybe you could have left,..that you could have trusted more in your love for Fatima. Because what kept you at the oasis was your own fear that you might never come back. At that point, the omens will tell you that your treasure is buried forever.
Then, sometime during the fourth year, the omens will abandon you, because you've stopped listening to them. The tribal chieftains will see that, and you'll be dismissed from your position as counselor. But, by then, you'll be a rich merchant, with many camels and a great deal of merchandise. You'll spend the rest of your days knowing that you didn't pursue your Personal Legend, and that now it's too late.
You must understand that love never keeps a man from pursuing his Personal legend. If he abandons that pursuit, it's because it wasn't true love...the love that speaks the Language of the World." (120-122)
******************
"The wise men understood that this natural world is only an image and a copy of paradise. The existence of this world is simply a guarantee that there exists a world that is perfect. God created the world so that, through its visible objects, men could understand his spiritual teachings and the marvels of his wisdom." (128)
******************
As they moved along, the boy tried to listen to his heart. It was not easy to do; in earlier times, his heart had always been ready to tell its story, but lately that wasn't true. There had been times when his heart spent hours telling of its sadness, and at other times it became so emotional over the desert sunrise that the boy had to hide his tears. His heart beat fastest when it spoke to the boy of treasure, and more slowly when the boy started entranced at the endless horizons of the desert. But his heart was never quiet, even when the boy and the alchemist had fallen into silence."Why do we have to listen to our heart?" the boy asked, when they had made camp that day.
"Because, wherever your heart is, that is where you'll find your treasure."
"But my heart is agitated," the boy said. "It has its dreams, it gets emotional, and it's become passionate over a woman of the desert. It asks things of me, and it keeps me from sleeping many nights, when I'm thinking about her."
"Well, that's good. Your heart is alive. Keep listening to what it has to say."
During the next three days, the two travelers passed by a number of armed tribesman, and saw others on the horizon. The boy's heart began to speak of fear. It told him stories it had heard from the Soul of the World. stories of men who sought to find their treasure and never succeeded. Sometimes it frightened the boy with the idea that he might not find his treasure, or that he might die there in the desert. At other times, it told the boy that it was satisfied: it had found love and riches.
"My heart is a traitor," the boy said to the alchemist, when they had paused to rest the horses.
"It doesn't want me to go on."
"That makes sense," the alchemist answered. "Naturally it's afraid that, in pursuing your dream, you might lose everything you've won."
"Well, then, why should I listen to my heart?"
"Because you will never again be able to keep it quiet. Even if you pretend not to have heard what it tells you, it will always be there inside you, repeating to you what you're thinking about life and about the world."
"You mean I should listen, even if it's treasonous?"
"Treason is a blow that comes unexpectedly. If you know your heart well, it will never be able to do that to you. Because you'll know its dreas and wishes, and will know how to deal with them. You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it's better to listen to what it has to say. That way, you'll never have to fear an unanticipated blow." (129-130)
******************
"Remember what I told you: the world is only the visible aspect of God. And that is what alchemy does is to bring spiritual perfection into contact with the material plane." (144)******************
"This is why alchemy exists," the boy said. "So that everyone will search for his treasure, find it, and then want to be better than he was in his former life. Lead will play is role until the world had no further need for lead; and then lead will have to turn itself into gold. That's what alchemists do. They show that, when we strive to becomes better than we are, everything around us becomes better, too.""Well, why did you say that I don't know about love?" the sun asked the boy.
"Because it's not love to be static like the desert, nor is it love to roam the world like the wind. And it's not love to see everything from a distance, like you do. Love is the force that transforms and improves the Soul of the World. When I first reached through to it, I thought the Soul of the World was perfect. But, later, I could see that it was like other aspects of creation, and had its own passions and wars. It is we who nourish the Soul of the World, and the world we live in will be either better or worse, depending on whether we become better or worse. And that's where the power of love comes into it. Because when we love, we always strive to become better than we are."
"So what do you want of me?" the sun asked.
"I want you to help me turn myself into the wind," the boy answered.
"Nature knows me as the wisest being in creation," the sun said. "But I don't know how to turn you into the wind."
"Then whom should I ask?"
The sun thought for a minute. The wind was listening closely, and wanted to tell every corner of the world that the sun's wisdom had its limitations. That it was unable to deal with this boy who spoke the Language of the World.
"Speak to the hand that wrote all," said the sun.
The boy turned to the hand that wrote all. As he did so, he sensed that the universe had fallen silent, and he decided not to speak. A current of love rushed from his heart, and the boy began to pray. It was a prayer that he had never said before, because it was a prayer without words or pleas. His prayer didn't give thanks for his sheep having found new pastures; it didn't ask that the boy be able to sell more crystal; and it didn't beseech that the woman he had met continue to await his return. In the silence, the boy understood that the desert, the wind, and the sun were also trying to understand the signs written by the hand, and were seeking to follow their paths, and to understand what had been written on a single emerald. He saw that omens were scattered throughout the earth and in space, and that there was no reason or significance attached to their appearance; he could see that not the deserts, nor the wind, nor the sun, nor people knew why they had been created. But that the hand had a reason for all of this, and that only the hand could perform miracles, or transform the sea into a desert...or a man into the wind. Because only the hand understood that it was a larger design that had moved the universe to the point at which six days of creation had evolved into the Master World.
The boy reached through to the Soul of the World, and saw that it was part of the Soul of God. And he saw that the Soul of God was his own soul. And that he, a boy, could perform miracles.
(152-3)
******************
The alchemist said, "No matter what he does, ever person on earth plays a central role in the history of the world. And normally he doesn't know it."
The boy smiled. He had never imagine that questions about life would be of such importance to a shepherd. (160)
Friday, August 13, 2010
Betwixt
And
Between.
Because sometimes prose just doesn't cut it. And because free writing is my therapy.
Not going to lie. I am onto something, into something deep.
And all the heresay is, well, here to stay.
This is me dodging the bullet, spitting it out.
And would you believe, I'd call this a confession.
Never a straight shot but always sure, always true,
I'm going to pound this one out the only way I know how.
Which is to say
lexically:
There is a joy that pathos will never know.
The turning of the last page of a book.
The hands of a clock.
The measurable distance between you
and me.
Feet. Inches. Centimeters.
That day always follows night.
Never a point d'interogation without a period
after.
These are joys, right?
But to not know dusk
or twilight or the blank page and a paint brush in hand.
A second glance.
A lightness.
A fever.
The fire at the back of your throat, behind your eyes
and deeper still.
A remembering that the body is only half of the whole.
These, Logos would not know.
Psykhe was once and maybe still is the word for soul.
And what could be more?
But my-ologies haven't taught me where -
by what joys
- I can pull out my map of this world,
the whole world,
and mark an x for telios.
And is this maybe vanity?
In a forest that I cannot see, for
the trees are phobos.
Like I said, I'm in real deep;
and it's getting overgrown.
Even if I had a map I have no where to put my feet
or find the road less
traveled.
When I close my eyes I hear,
when I open my eyes the trees,
inscribed like the ancient walls:
gnothi seauton.
BUT! sometimes,
less is
more.
Between.
Because sometimes prose just doesn't cut it. And because free writing is my therapy.
Not going to lie. I am onto something, into something deep.
And all the heresay is, well, here to stay.
This is me dodging the bullet, spitting it out.
And would you believe, I'd call this a confession.
Never a straight shot but always sure, always true,
I'm going to pound this one out the only way I know how.
Which is to say
lexically:
There is a joy that pathos will never know.
The turning of the last page of a book.
The hands of a clock.
The measurable distance between you
and me.
Feet. Inches. Centimeters.
That day always follows night.
Never a point d'interogation without a period
after.
These are joys, right?
But to not know dusk
or twilight or the blank page and a paint brush in hand.
A second glance.
A lightness.
A fever.
The fire at the back of your throat, behind your eyes
and deeper still.
A remembering that the body is only half of the whole.
These, Logos would not know.
Psykhe was once and maybe still is the word for soul.
And what could be more?
But my-ologies haven't taught me where -
by what joys
- I can pull out my map of this world,
the whole world,
and mark an x for telios.
And is this maybe vanity?
In a forest that I cannot see, for
the trees are phobos.
Like I said, I'm in real deep;
and it's getting overgrown.
Even if I had a map I have no where to put my feet
or find the road less
traveled.
When I close my eyes I hear,
when I open my eyes the trees,
inscribed like the ancient walls:
gnothi seauton.
BUT! sometimes,
less is
more.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
A good day for listening
Earlier this summer I was in a conversation with someone who doesn't share my religious convictions. Some of my spiritual ones, yes. Perhaps. Yet there we were, having a religious conversation. And I should probably warn you: this is going to be a religious post. Or at least a spiritual one. I get tripped up in the terminology.
And this person, he asked me, "So what, does God speak to you then?"
And, trying to answer the question directly without first citing examples (trying because this is not something that comes naturally to me), I went big, went bold, and left the disclaimers in the dust.
"Yes".
We didn't get into it much more. I mentioned intuition. I referenced coincidence. I talked about that icky feeling you get when something isn't quite right and its peaceful counterpart when something is; a near cousin to morale conscience because sometimes the situation isn't about morals at all. All of these, I expressed, were ways that God talks to us.
And I believe in all those ways. I do. (I also understand how people might chalk them up the capacity of the human psyche. But I- personally- can't. I don't doubt that the human mind is capable of much more than we understand. Some people have faith in science, I have faith in God. Both, for me, are still a question of faith and of the choice in where to put that faith.)
The nature of the conversation however, didn't lend itself to the discussion of another way that God speaks: his own voice. Which he gets us to hear by speaking through our own voice.
I have been trying to figure a lot of things out lately. The other night, just before nodding off, I remembered vaguely something that had occurred to me on my mission. Like I was seriously half asleep already. Then, I remembered my mission journal.
On the mission, I kept a part of my journal called: "Ce que j'ai appris grace a la mission". What I've learned thanks to the mission. In it, I kept notes about what I had learned about ME. Living with another person 24 hours a day, being away from home, meeting different people. I had a colorful backdrop for 18 months against which I examined myself. And luckily, I wrote down some of my observations.
But there were also a few particular moments during my mission that I asked questions and I heard answers. As in, voiced answers. It's personal so it makes sense that I didn't share this in aforementioned conversation. I mention it here because I figure if you are reading you know me well enough to respect the disclosure. Again, the subject of these questions was me: my life. I wrote down my impressions. Honestly, they seemed out of context and didn't really make sense at all to me but I wrote them down all the same. If you could only know my lack of journal keeping during those 18 months you would realize how huge it is that I wrote any of these impressions down at all, let alone in the detail that I did.
Today, being home for the weekend, I pulled out those journals. I knew the pages I needed to flip to. And there, written in 2007 in my own hand was the advice I needed to hear-to remember because I had since forgotten-three years later to help make sense of my current questions and problems: God's voice. My words. Understood for the first time in context.
Last night I started to reread Eat, Pray, Love. Which puts me now to 5, I think, books that I'm simultaneously reading. I still count War and Peace, though I'm pretty sure I've lost the beast of a book for good and will have to buy a new one. Anyhow, reading this book right now may not be the best idea because it will probably inspire me to abandon any responsible plans for my future in favor of traveling. Oh well.
The author, Elizabeth Gilbert, who people have told me reminds them of me (I didn't see it the first time but I'm starting to now and trying to be flattered. She did, after all, write a great book and she is funny to boot), describes the beginning of her relation with the divine. It happened in a bathroom. On the floor. Where she started to pray. Like, for the first time. Ever.
Here is the excerpt:
And so the prayer narrowed itself down to that simple entreaty-Please tell me what to do-repeated again and again. I don't know how many times I begged. I only know that I begged like someone who was pleading for her life. And the crying went on forever.
Until-quite abruptly-it stopped.
Quite abruptly, I found that I was not crying anymore. I'd stopped crying, in fact, mid-sob. My misery had been completely vacuumed out of me. I lifted my forehead off the floor and sat up in surprise, wondering if I would see now some Great Being who had taken my weeping away. But nobody was there. I was just alone. But not really alone, either. I was surrounded by something I can only describe as a little pocket of silence-a silence so rare that I didn't want to exhale for fear of scaring it off. I was seamlessly still. I don't know when I'd ever felt such stillness.
Then I heard a voice. Please don't be alarmed-it was not an Old Testament Hollywood Charles Heston voice, nor was it a voice telling me I must build a baseball field in my backyard. It was merely my own voice, speaking from within my own self. But this was my voice as I had never heard it before. This was my voice, but perfectly wise, calm and compassionate. This was what my voice would sound like if I'd only ever experienced love and certainty in life. How can I describe the warmth of affection in that voice, as it gave me the answer that would forever seal my faith in the divine?
The voice said: Go back to bed, Liz.
I won't bother to try to explain how my life has been changed thanks to going on a mission. But I can try to express gratitude that I did.
That I know the stillness.
That I kept-though not enough-a journal.
That I still maintain the habit of taking notes during church.
That I let that voice guide my pen.
That I remembered.
That things correlate.
That we can find answers now to questions we weren't asking then.
That God foresees our needs and gives us the answers we need by letting them come from us. Because that is the only way we could accept them.
And that. Is only the beginning.
And this person, he asked me, "So what, does God speak to you then?"
And, trying to answer the question directly without first citing examples (trying because this is not something that comes naturally to me), I went big, went bold, and left the disclaimers in the dust.
"Yes".
We didn't get into it much more. I mentioned intuition. I referenced coincidence. I talked about that icky feeling you get when something isn't quite right and its peaceful counterpart when something is; a near cousin to morale conscience because sometimes the situation isn't about morals at all. All of these, I expressed, were ways that God talks to us.
And I believe in all those ways. I do. (I also understand how people might chalk them up the capacity of the human psyche. But I- personally- can't. I don't doubt that the human mind is capable of much more than we understand. Some people have faith in science, I have faith in God. Both, for me, are still a question of faith and of the choice in where to put that faith.)
The nature of the conversation however, didn't lend itself to the discussion of another way that God speaks: his own voice. Which he gets us to hear by speaking through our own voice.
I have been trying to figure a lot of things out lately. The other night, just before nodding off, I remembered vaguely something that had occurred to me on my mission. Like I was seriously half asleep already. Then, I remembered my mission journal.
On the mission, I kept a part of my journal called: "Ce que j'ai appris grace a la mission". What I've learned thanks to the mission. In it, I kept notes about what I had learned about ME. Living with another person 24 hours a day, being away from home, meeting different people. I had a colorful backdrop for 18 months against which I examined myself. And luckily, I wrote down some of my observations.
But there were also a few particular moments during my mission that I asked questions and I heard answers. As in, voiced answers. It's personal so it makes sense that I didn't share this in aforementioned conversation. I mention it here because I figure if you are reading you know me well enough to respect the disclosure. Again, the subject of these questions was me: my life. I wrote down my impressions. Honestly, they seemed out of context and didn't really make sense at all to me but I wrote them down all the same. If you could only know my lack of journal keeping during those 18 months you would realize how huge it is that I wrote any of these impressions down at all, let alone in the detail that I did.
Today, being home for the weekend, I pulled out those journals. I knew the pages I needed to flip to. And there, written in 2007 in my own hand was the advice I needed to hear-to remember because I had since forgotten-three years later to help make sense of my current questions and problems: God's voice. My words. Understood for the first time in context.
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Last night I started to reread Eat, Pray, Love. Which puts me now to 5, I think, books that I'm simultaneously reading. I still count War and Peace, though I'm pretty sure I've lost the beast of a book for good and will have to buy a new one. Anyhow, reading this book right now may not be the best idea because it will probably inspire me to abandon any responsible plans for my future in favor of traveling. Oh well.
The author, Elizabeth Gilbert, who people have told me reminds them of me (I didn't see it the first time but I'm starting to now and trying to be flattered. She did, after all, write a great book and she is funny to boot), describes the beginning of her relation with the divine. It happened in a bathroom. On the floor. Where she started to pray. Like, for the first time. Ever.
Here is the excerpt:
And so the prayer narrowed itself down to that simple entreaty-Please tell me what to do-repeated again and again. I don't know how many times I begged. I only know that I begged like someone who was pleading for her life. And the crying went on forever.
Until-quite abruptly-it stopped.
Quite abruptly, I found that I was not crying anymore. I'd stopped crying, in fact, mid-sob. My misery had been completely vacuumed out of me. I lifted my forehead off the floor and sat up in surprise, wondering if I would see now some Great Being who had taken my weeping away. But nobody was there. I was just alone. But not really alone, either. I was surrounded by something I can only describe as a little pocket of silence-a silence so rare that I didn't want to exhale for fear of scaring it off. I was seamlessly still. I don't know when I'd ever felt such stillness.
Then I heard a voice. Please don't be alarmed-it was not an Old Testament Hollywood Charles Heston voice, nor was it a voice telling me I must build a baseball field in my backyard. It was merely my own voice, speaking from within my own self. But this was my voice as I had never heard it before. This was my voice, but perfectly wise, calm and compassionate. This was what my voice would sound like if I'd only ever experienced love and certainty in life. How can I describe the warmth of affection in that voice, as it gave me the answer that would forever seal my faith in the divine?
The voice said: Go back to bed, Liz.
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I'll leave the rest of the book for you to read. What can I say, I'm just a tease. I share this part because, well, isn't that how it happens?
I'll leave the rest of the book for you to read. What can I say, I'm just a tease. I share this part because, well, isn't that how it happens?
You know, it's nice to be reminded of what is true. This weekend was a good time for that.
I won't bother to try to explain how my life has been changed thanks to going on a mission. But I can try to express gratitude that I did.
That I know the stillness.
That I kept-though not enough-a journal.
That I still maintain the habit of taking notes during church.
That I let that voice guide my pen.
That I remembered.
That things correlate.
That we can find answers now to questions we weren't asking then.
That God foresees our needs and gives us the answers we need by letting them come from us. Because that is the only way we could accept them.
And that. Is only the beginning.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
A detour or two.
I'm writing from the comfort of a bed that is not my own but is at least in my house in the room I inhabited from age seven probably to age fifteen. It seems so much smaller now.
This blog thing has turned into the monster I was afraid it would: a distraction from real writing and a glorified egocentric journal because merely writing assumes that people want to read. It just seems presumptuous. But this has also become a form of therapy, this half-bred offspring of journal meets moleskin. In fact, I have so gotten in the habit of writing that I have started to carry a notebook. I make notes. I am more aware of the simple things in life like weather patterns or the bathroom stall in the Colorado Springs airport that I have used now 4 times. Yes 4. The exact same stall. It's starting to evoke a sense of nostalgia. Though I guess I'm losing the point here, which is that this monster of a blog is maybe profiting me nevertheless. In summary, I have a love/hate relationship with it. Love/hate; now isn't that a new trend for me?
So I am home. Not for good. And I wonder if that makes me love it all the more. Sometimes I think I just like leaving home so I can fly back over the mountains, through the clouds and over the great salt lake and feel my breath catch in my chest as everything I love most becomes physically accessible again. I wrote more about this in my infamous notebook so I'll spare you. I actually want to rewind a few days to write about Wednesday night.
So Monday during Alex's guitar lessons Emma and I took a stroll and passed by this quaint little shop, Black Cat Books.
I wanted to go in but Emma needed to find a bathroom. If there is one thing I have learned about kids it is that they lose bladder control at the very moment it becomes most inconvenient. Luckily walking past I saw an announcement for a workshop on Wednesday, "Publish Your Book". Now, I don't have a book to publish. I just explained that. Or maybe I didn't. Anyway, this blog I hold partly responsible for the absence of a book. But that is just me passing the buck to a nonentity. All the same, I thought you know it couldn't hurt to see the end from the beginning. So I planned to check out said workshop.I made the 25 minute drive which became 40 minutes because of traffic. And I started late. And hungry. So needless to say I was stressed and to stave off the stress I summoned excitement. So by the time I arrive I'm super pumped up. It started to rain when I got there so I ran down the streets so as to avoid getting too wet. What with the wind and the running my hat went flying off. Which got a good laugh from café goers as well as from me. I enter the bookshop only to find that the author giving the workshop left because no one showed up on time. So I had gotten ready, put off my phone call to Peru as well as my run and not to mention my dinner, for nothing. I couldn't just turn around so I wondered to the downstairs of the bookstore. It was totally empty and I wandered in revelry though perhaps wander is not totally accurate. More like shuffled; the place was small. I even sat down for 15 minutes and jotted down some things in my notebook. Feeling better, I find a stack of Brian Andreas goodness in the form of Storypeople.
I first discovered Storypeople during my 2006 graduation present to me trip to Seattle. I had actually been thinking about them a few weeks back while trying to think of things that made me happy. I had copied and pasted so many of the quotes and Word somehow annihilate d the document. It was just one of those days that I kept striking out. Seriously. But these funky pictures, scuptures and quotes make me smile. And if I am going to take up gigabites I should be using it to spread goodness. So here are some of my favorite "Stories". They make me feel like being a kid and hope and laugh and maybe sigh. And honestly, I think Brian Andreas must have been spying on me because I swear there are things here I've said word for nearly-almost word. It's a funny feeling, the suspicion that the story of your life was written by someone else. But a comforting one. Because it means that you're not as alone as you once suspected.
So thank you Brian Andreas. Thank you thingsnotworkingoutasplanned. After all.
Enjoy. Enjoy. En joie. Oui, c'est ca.
When I grow UP, I want to remember that I always wanted to be about a thousand different things & one lifetime didn't seem nearly enough. When I grow up, I hope it's at the very end when it doesn't matter anymore anyway.
I can imagine it working out perfectly, I said. I can't, she said & I said no wonder you're so stressed.
They came to sit & dangle their feet off the edge of the world & after awhile they forgot everything but the good & true things they would do someday.
We had gone far enough together to listen easily in the quiet spaces.
It took me a long time, she said, to stop confusing safety with love.
I mainly want someone to tell me I'm right & then pay me, he said. Is that too much to ask? & I said as long as you're living in a dream world, you might as well make it work for you.
I only do this until I get dizzy & then I lay down on my back & watch the clouds, she said. It sounds simple but you won't believe how many people forget the second part.
This is a giant block of whatever is most difficult for you to carry & trust me on this, you'll carry it more times than you can count until you decide that's exactly what you want to do most & then it won't weigh a thing anymore.
I'm not sure if there's one right place I'm supposed to be, he said, but I know a couple of wrong places I'd give a second try in a heartbeat.
the real problem with details is there's so many of them
If you're right & I'm not, I'm going to be hell to live with, she said. So, you better think about that next time you want to be right.
When I first met him, I knew in a moment I would have to spend the next few days re-arranging my mind so there'd be room for him to stay.
What are the rules? I said & she said, Do exactly what I want whenever I want, make no demands of me whatsoever & love me forever, no questions asked & I said, how do you win? & she said, you don't understand. I'm the only one who wins & then she laughed & clapped her hands. Isn't it a great game? she said.
Tied together by stuff too difficult to explain to someone new
If you hold on to the handle, she said, it's easier to maintain the illusion of control. But it's more fun if you just let the wind carry you.
I saw them standing there pretending to be just friends, when all the time in the world could not pry them apart.
I try & walk a line between terror & ecstasy, she said & then she shook her head. You'd be amazed at the people who avoid me for no good reason, other than that.
I think my life would be easier, she said, if I could just get my selves to agree on something.
When I was younger I used to keep all the stuff I had in my pockets. There were a lot of rocks & little shiny things. As I got older it got to be too much to carry & I couldn't remember why I kept it anyway so I finally got rid of it. Now, I make lists
this is a picture of the future & you'll notice that there's a lot of blank space because people haven't made up their minds about it & the future doesn't have a lot of time for that kind of indecisiveness
It's taken me a long time to get here, he said, so I don't really care if it's wrong.
Why is the world so confusing? he said & I said it's only confusing if you believe it has to make sense & he looked at me & shook his head. I can't believe they let just anyone have children, he said.
If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.
