Today I had this kind of delayed realization of how dramatic I really am.
Not gonna get into the particulars, but really. Seriously. I am.
I don't have anything in particular I'd like to commit to writing. A bunch of everything I don't have time to get to. Mostly, I love the line my title is taken from. Call it a summary if you will, or maybe inspiration. But it needed to be put out there.
I just think it's funny how life is rarely balanced. Feast or famine, my Aunt G told me the other day. A subheading for this post could very well be (originating from the genius minds behind the first line), "Everything hits at once". Which is apparently how I like it.
I've been thinking a lot lately about my tendency to try to carry too many things at once. I mean, I have small hands and my arms get tired prematurely despite my pathetic attempts to endow them with strength. Oh and did I mention I have a little thumb. Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about this because I've been moved out about a month now and honestly every time I stop home-which is about every other day-I end up bringing more things home or hijacking miscellaneous objects from my house like say a book or two here and some food and instant breakfast or a corner of a brownie I shouldn't eat but do while I leave a nice bag of laundry in the washer. And I also feel like I live at work now. I bring half of my cupboard with me so I can put together meals there. So I get in and out of my car and my arms are brimming with bags and sacs and books and boxes and groceries. Oh yeah, did I mention that I do my own grocery shopping now? Not to sound pathetic-because I mean, with my freak of a gluten self I have been doing a lot of my own shopping for a while now-but there is something I LOVE about grocery shopping. It reminds me of France, and hiking up the 5 flights of stairs with water. As in, my drinking water for the week. Then followed by my milk. Then followed by everything else. It was a serious feat for my 20 year old self. And this was all after a spending a good hour perusing the aisles and basking in the glory of French food and labels. Not to mention a successful exchange with the cashier. Yes, in French.
That, ladies and gents, was how I came into the world of grocery shopping for ones self. It was a beautiful, complicated thing. And I still love grocery shopping today, if only because I associate it so deeply with something so wonderful.
But yeah, back to this bad habit of mine that my Dad likes to give me grief for. Rather than make several trips, I tend to pile everything possible on top of me. Using every finger, crook and sometimes toe. The irony of course is that I rarely make it anywhere without gravity and physics getting the best of me. Though technically I suppose physics wouldn't be physics without the gravity and that physics is an all encompassing term but hey, emphasis on the gravity. And on the toes. Which usually end up suffering the consequences.
Saturday in fact I was returning from Costco and lost the strawberries twice to the grass on account of the fact that I couldn't see where I was going because said strawberries were obstructing my view. I had to squat twice to pick up and rearrange. The best part of the story is that my roommate was a witness. She was in her car, watching, but occupied. I was really glad that someone else got a laugh out of it because there I was in squat #2 and I thought that this whole gravity thing was wasted on me if I was the only one who got to see it. Because let's be honest. Been there, done that. It's not that impressive to me anymore.
This gift that I have for overestimating my capacity to juggle what I'm carrying and my ardent attempts at defying gravity are starting to seem like a metaphor of my entire life. Not that this cycle is necessarily driven by an attempt at cutting corners-more an attempt to streamline efficiently.
For example, recently, I feel like I'm in a relationship with my running that started off as a fling which then turned on me into a serious, committed monster. This is kind of the story of my life. It's weird how the little things I take on have this ability to morph into big, life consuming things. They just sneak up on me, imperceptively. And afterward I think, as I so often do when I'm gathering up the fallen spoils of the war between gravity and I, "should I have seen this coming?"
Most of them are beautiful things in their own right. Most of them I wouldn't take back. Because if I could have foreseen the potential mess I couldn't have foreseen where that mess would bring me.
And therein lies my problem.
Because here I am. Trying to add just one more thing to the top of my stack and my burdened arms. But hey, I'll count my blessings: I carry around one terrific pile of things and I'm gonna do it like I've only got one trip. And ain't that the truth.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
Getting crafty
So it's fall break. The plan was to read a little from Manual del Guerrero de la Luz and get up sharply at eight and spend all day tomorrow being very efficient.
So not going to happen right now.
My efficient day tomorrow hopefully will revolve around a service project we're collaborating on as a ward. It's a fundraiser and by collaborate I mean we all come up with crafty things to sell at a boutique and then the money will go to support the non-profit charity group Mothers Without Borders. My roommate is kind of the one who put us in contact with the organization and is spearheading our efforts. She's inspiring, so I figured that I could summon the artistic/mime buried deep inside and get crafty.
Now I'm not particularly big on the whole "vinyl" thing on the walls of houses. I'm not too big on vinyl on wooden plaques either, to tell you the truth. Like, I don't know if I would actually ever purchase them. But supposedly people like them and my dad has a vinyl machine so it seemed like a nice marriage of means and demand and lack of originality.
And, I probably don't need to mention this here of all places, but, I do love words. So it kind of makes sense, right? In fact, one of my projects to do before I die or turn 30 (isn't that synonymous?) is to find favorite lines from some of my favorite children's books (we're talking the classics here) and illustrate them. Watercolor. Colored pencil. Sketch. Modge podge collage. Whatever. And then I want to frame them, complete with the test/line at the bottom of the frame.
On second thought, maybe I should postpone my deadline till 35 because obviously the idea behind this is that this potential "series" would go in a kids room. And well, there's me getting ahead of myself. Though with 4 sisters one of us is bound to have produced a mini-Hendry over the course of the next couple years.
If I ever type the number 35 in reference to my inevitable future age again I think I might puke. I'm still in denial I ever stopped being 22.
Anyway, so you get the appeal with the whole words thing. My dilemma is that I love words excessively. As in, a lot of words. As in, the quotes and poems that I want to dedicate to vinyl are probably longer than most people care to have written on their walls. And I can't really help the starving children in Africa if I make something that doesn't sell. But, like, I'm not a mind reader. Nor a marketer. Soooo.....
Truthfully, I'm not sure how this dilemma will work itself out. This week though, with this project in mind I came across a book with some beautiful silhouettes of children. And some of them I might try to make work for my project. A lot of them though just made me think of "project nursery" (a word that I am only able to type without nausea because my sister is decorating hers so I'm getting immune to it: much more immune that the number-which-shall-not-be-typed). And one of the pictures (which I cannot scan because my scanner IS NOT WORKING) would go oh so perfectly with this quote from Alice Through the Looking Glass:
Alice: You see, Kitty, it must have been either me or the Red King. He was part of my dream, of course -- but then I was part of his dream, too!
Wish I had the silhouette. Anyway, one thing led to another and this picture and one on the opposite page reminded me of something I wrote years ago in a creative writing class and have been wanting to edit and dedicate to print. Like maybe bookbags or something. I don't think anyone would care for it on a wooden plaque in vinyl with the silhouette. But I might be onto something with the last two lines. They've become my own personal mantra and I know that's super lame to be so self involved that you take your own advice way too seriously but well, is it so crazy to say that maybe the words speak to me because they came to and not from me. (This is another cryptic Elizabeth Gilbert reference. You can get the full context here, under the news section and her TED talk on creativity). And I might actually start up my own project once Mothers Without Borders is done. I blame Etsy for these desperate, hairbrained ideas. Among other things. Thought more than Etsy knick-knacks (all of which, coming from me, would probably involve words) I really want to collaborate with my sister and write and illustrate a children's book. Like really. But most of my ideas and wants never come to fruition which kind of leaves me just wanting to post the thing here. In the meantime, I tell myself.
So whatever, enjoy. Hopefully my scanner will start functioning and I can get the images. They kinda tie everything together.
I have several other posts that never made it past a few lines in my head that summarized an entire web of feelings and thoughts. I wish I had time to go back and write them but I likely won't. In summary:
I miss Colorado. I miss my CZ family. I miss the hours I had to read and speak French and run and play with the dog. I miss riding in the car and having the kids sing along to the radio (Your Love is my Drug, Break Your Heart, and other top 40) but most especially when they would sing to 500 Days of Summer soundtrack.
Four years ago October 11th I started my mission. I rewalk the streets of Quebec almost every day in my memories. People that I maybe only talked to for 5 minutes and will never see again are still changing my life. I miss the members there more than they'd probably ever guess.
Yesterday, a man down the street from me passed away after a year or so of battling cancer. My dad sent me the link to his blog and his last entry was so beautiful. A young father of 3 children, he was at peace with his end. I think a lot of that is faith and a lot of that is a life of giving. I'm in no real position to comment and not really able to articulate. But that kind of peace and strength, it's something to think about.
I love a lot of people, all around the world. It baffles me sometimes, how much room the heart has to carry people in it. I am grateful for the people who carry me with them still. And for those that inspire.
So not going to happen right now.
My efficient day tomorrow hopefully will revolve around a service project we're collaborating on as a ward. It's a fundraiser and by collaborate I mean we all come up with crafty things to sell at a boutique and then the money will go to support the non-profit charity group Mothers Without Borders. My roommate is kind of the one who put us in contact with the organization and is spearheading our efforts. She's inspiring, so I figured that I could summon the artistic/mime buried deep inside and get crafty.
Now I'm not particularly big on the whole "vinyl" thing on the walls of houses. I'm not too big on vinyl on wooden plaques either, to tell you the truth. Like, I don't know if I would actually ever purchase them. But supposedly people like them and my dad has a vinyl machine so it seemed like a nice marriage of means and demand and lack of originality.
And, I probably don't need to mention this here of all places, but, I do love words. So it kind of makes sense, right? In fact, one of my projects to do before I die or turn 30 (isn't that synonymous?) is to find favorite lines from some of my favorite children's books (we're talking the classics here) and illustrate them. Watercolor. Colored pencil. Sketch. Modge podge collage. Whatever. And then I want to frame them, complete with the test/line at the bottom of the frame.
On second thought, maybe I should postpone my deadline till 35 because obviously the idea behind this is that this potential "series" would go in a kids room. And well, there's me getting ahead of myself. Though with 4 sisters one of us is bound to have produced a mini-Hendry over the course of the next couple years.
If I ever type the number 35 in reference to my inevitable future age again I think I might puke. I'm still in denial I ever stopped being 22.
Anyway, so you get the appeal with the whole words thing. My dilemma is that I love words excessively. As in, a lot of words. As in, the quotes and poems that I want to dedicate to vinyl are probably longer than most people care to have written on their walls. And I can't really help the starving children in Africa if I make something that doesn't sell. But, like, I'm not a mind reader. Nor a marketer. Soooo.....
Truthfully, I'm not sure how this dilemma will work itself out. This week though, with this project in mind I came across a book with some beautiful silhouettes of children. And some of them I might try to make work for my project. A lot of them though just made me think of "project nursery" (a word that I am only able to type without nausea because my sister is decorating hers so I'm getting immune to it: much more immune that the number-which-shall-not-be-typed). And one of the pictures (which I cannot scan because my scanner IS NOT WORKING) would go oh so perfectly with this quote from Alice Through the Looking Glass:
Alice: You see, Kitty, it must have been either me or the Red King. He was part of my dream, of course -- but then I was part of his dream, too!
Wish I had the silhouette. Anyway, one thing led to another and this picture and one on the opposite page reminded me of something I wrote years ago in a creative writing class and have been wanting to edit and dedicate to print. Like maybe bookbags or something. I don't think anyone would care for it on a wooden plaque in vinyl with the silhouette. But I might be onto something with the last two lines. They've become my own personal mantra and I know that's super lame to be so self involved that you take your own advice way too seriously but well, is it so crazy to say that maybe the words speak to me because they came to and not from me. (This is another cryptic Elizabeth Gilbert reference. You can get the full context here, under the news section and her TED talk on creativity). And I might actually start up my own project once Mothers Without Borders is done. I blame Etsy for these desperate, hairbrained ideas. Among other things. Thought more than Etsy knick-knacks (all of which, coming from me, would probably involve words) I really want to collaborate with my sister and write and illustrate a children's book. Like really. But most of my ideas and wants never come to fruition which kind of leaves me just wanting to post the thing here. In the meantime, I tell myself.
So whatever, enjoy. Hopefully my scanner will start functioning and I can get the images. They kinda tie everything together.
You are here to learn the world by heart. One plus one, two plus two. The sky is blue, and the grass is green. But sometimes the sun likes to remind us that we shouldn’t get too comfortable with that simplicity, and plays tricks on us by way of surprises. (Especially at sunset.) Dark clouds mean rain, and if there's going to be rain it’s best to have a coat. And maybe some rubber boots. Sometimes, being in the rain without a coat isn’t such a bad thing. You are here to learn the world by heart. You get what you pay for (most of the time). You won’t always get what you give. Sometimes you will get exactly what you give; and more. Everything is qualified. You are here to learn the world by heart. Always bring an extra pair of socks. You can never own too many shoes. Socks don‘t always have to match; shoes probably should. Don’t let your feet-and most especially your toes-forget the feeling of the raw earth under them. You are here to learn the world by heart. There are times when it’s best to remember to forget. Sometimes the little things are disguised as big things and sometimes the big things are disguised as the little ones. What matters most cannot be seen. Do not see what isn’t there. Look both ways. You are here to learn the world by heart. Please and thank you really are magic words. A seed plus soil plus sun plus water all just right makes a plant. And that is magic too. The worst of times can also be the best of times. The soul speaks many languages. You are here to learn the world by heart. Take time to listen. To people. To music. To the streets and the wind. To the sound of you breath and your heart beating. Stand up straight. Smile. Fake a smile. Never fake tears; but don’t stop them either. Fear doesn’t always mean that you aren’t brave. Maybe just too careful. Gravity is that thing that pulls you down when you are trying to fly. But don't keep that from stopping you. You are here to learn the world by heart. Beginning, middle, end. For every breath you take from the world, the world will make you give it back; it's like you're breathing together, if you do it right. You are here to learn the world by heart. Learn the world by heart.
I have several other posts that never made it past a few lines in my head that summarized an entire web of feelings and thoughts. I wish I had time to go back and write them but I likely won't. In summary:
I miss Colorado. I miss my CZ family. I miss the hours I had to read and speak French and run and play with the dog. I miss riding in the car and having the kids sing along to the radio (Your Love is my Drug, Break Your Heart, and other top 40) but most especially when they would sing to 500 Days of Summer soundtrack.
Four years ago October 11th I started my mission. I rewalk the streets of Quebec almost every day in my memories. People that I maybe only talked to for 5 minutes and will never see again are still changing my life. I miss the members there more than they'd probably ever guess.
Yesterday, a man down the street from me passed away after a year or so of battling cancer. My dad sent me the link to his blog and his last entry was so beautiful. A young father of 3 children, he was at peace with his end. I think a lot of that is faith and a lot of that is a life of giving. I'm in no real position to comment and not really able to articulate. But that kind of peace and strength, it's something to think about.
I love a lot of people, all around the world. It baffles me sometimes, how much room the heart has to carry people in it. I am grateful for the people who carry me with them still. And for those that inspire.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Street tar and summer'll do a job on your soul
I was going through old emails and folders today. I've never really kept a journal. But I did write emails. Oh, did I ever. And if you think my public blog posts are intimate, well. You can only imagine my emails, right?
So I'm thinking of undertaking some copying and pasting and filling in the gap years. Which means I'm naturally tending to an electronic journal. At least for that project. When, and with what time, is, as always, the question.
I came across some old poetry I'd written and then emailed to myself. Remember how I told you I was never the kid with my moleskin. Never with a pen. Not even a pencil with an extra big eraser. I've always tended to the keyboard. But, easy as it is to loose notebooks and pens and planners, it's as equally easy to loose (or loose track of) files.
The title of this song was taken from a Spoon song, Black Like Me. Which is the title of a book I came into possession of by way of my father but never actually read. And I keep meaning to.
I've been listening to this song and this line just speaks to me. And they've been repaving the street in front of my families house. And I was thinking, driving down it the other night, about the layers of street, of tar that is buried under this new layer. I know they sometimes strip the street before repave it or whatever. And I was thinking about the cars that drive on that road which just made my feet itch to be bare and be the first person to run that road barefoot. And I was brought back to a similar scene from my youth when that same street was being repaved. And, being kids, we walked in the still wet tar. And oh, was it hard to get that tar off.
But somehow, I don't remember the black stains. I remember yellow and black. Laughing. Honeysuckle. And I want to say a straw.
I was thinking all these things and naturally I thought, "I need to write that down". And then today, going through my old forgotten email folders, like a weed pushing up through the cracks in concrete, this poem found its way back to me. I had completely forgotten about it. I have no recollection of having written it. I don't remember how I felt when I wrote it. What I was trying to feel. It was 7/10/06. Lisa's birthday. Three months before I left to Quebec for my mission. I want to say it's incomplete. Though since I can't remember, I can't really say. I do know there is no period at the end. That's a pretty good indication I emailed it to myself in a sense of urgency. I do not forget periods lightly. Ha ha.
I must have beckoned it once, years ago. And then, I beckoned it a few days ago and it found its way, faithfully, back to me. I can't take that kind of coincidence lightly and I hope you understand why.
I'm posting it here. Unfinished. Untitled. (Because while I may steal their lyrics for my blog titles, I will never steal Spoon's lyrics for poem titles.) Like the stripped down layer of the road before the tar is laid, it's where the memories are, even if buried. And I'll let it see the light before I forget about it again:
So I'm thinking of undertaking some copying and pasting and filling in the gap years. Which means I'm naturally tending to an electronic journal. At least for that project. When, and with what time, is, as always, the question.
I came across some old poetry I'd written and then emailed to myself. Remember how I told you I was never the kid with my moleskin. Never with a pen. Not even a pencil with an extra big eraser. I've always tended to the keyboard. But, easy as it is to loose notebooks and pens and planners, it's as equally easy to loose (or loose track of) files.
The title of this song was taken from a Spoon song, Black Like Me. Which is the title of a book I came into possession of by way of my father but never actually read. And I keep meaning to.
I've been listening to this song and this line just speaks to me. And they've been repaving the street in front of my families house. And I was thinking, driving down it the other night, about the layers of street, of tar that is buried under this new layer. I know they sometimes strip the street before repave it or whatever. And I was thinking about the cars that drive on that road which just made my feet itch to be bare and be the first person to run that road barefoot. And I was brought back to a similar scene from my youth when that same street was being repaved. And, being kids, we walked in the still wet tar. And oh, was it hard to get that tar off.
But somehow, I don't remember the black stains. I remember yellow and black. Laughing. Honeysuckle. And I want to say a straw.
I was thinking all these things and naturally I thought, "I need to write that down". And then today, going through my old forgotten email folders, like a weed pushing up through the cracks in concrete, this poem found its way back to me. I had completely forgotten about it. I have no recollection of having written it. I don't remember how I felt when I wrote it. What I was trying to feel. It was 7/10/06. Lisa's birthday. Three months before I left to Quebec for my mission. I want to say it's incomplete. Though since I can't remember, I can't really say. I do know there is no period at the end. That's a pretty good indication I emailed it to myself in a sense of urgency. I do not forget periods lightly. Ha ha.
I must have beckoned it once, years ago. And then, I beckoned it a few days ago and it found its way, faithfully, back to me. I can't take that kind of coincidence lightly and I hope you understand why.
I'm posting it here. Unfinished. Untitled. (Because while I may steal their lyrics for my blog titles, I will never steal Spoon's lyrics for poem titles.) Like the stripped down layer of the road before the tar is laid, it's where the memories are, even if buried. And I'll let it see the light before I forget about it again:
Urban feet get stuck in mud too, you know.
Hot concrete on calloused feet,
Deevolutionized by the sun from road
to the soft tar laid one early morning
Years ago.
And isn’t that just how it is?
Time, I mean.
Because I remember the laying of that tar.
Hot season, burning blackness, had to stick our fingers in it,
Feet and toes.
Baby, all I wanted was to one day walk a million
different such streets in rushed stilettos.
I somehow imagined that the air I breathed higher would be deeper,
My pulmonary cells wished for that, involuntary. Make this blood bluer,
They said. Bluer. More blue.
Such imagination.
I spent the early seasons waiting for fall,
fall wanting to return to spring,
Unable, nuclei, to imagine
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
In with the outro and out with the old!
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!
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!
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.