I believe in this.
This...
Intangible thing
It sweeps you off your feet
and carries you away
This...
This condition.
This clouded perception,
Encased in shards of light
I believe in this.
This...
Calm.
This surrender.
This ocean of silence.
This...
This direction.
This one-step-at-a-time.
Follow.
Follow,
Follow.
I believe in this.
This...
Inferno.
This combustion.
This.
Already entombed under six feet of ash
I believe in this.
This...
Vulnerability.
This barren space.
This wasteland.
I give it to you.
I believe in this.
This...
Foundation.
This solidified movement.
Please,
Come and set me free.
This...
This exhilaration.
This breeze.
Such a gentle touch,
Can you feel it?
I believe in this.
This...
Shadow.
This haunting.
This wretched decay.
This...
This filth.
Cleanse your hands;
This is best left behind.
I believe in this.
This...
Elixir.
This substance.
Allow us just a sample;
a taste is all you'll need.
This...
This harmony.
This song.
This...
Delicately crafted notation.
Dance!
Dance for me and cry.
Promise to live,
And understand that you'll die.
I believe in this.
This...
Intangible thing.
This emotion.
This awakening perception.
This...
This inevitability.
This apprehension.
This...
This I believe in.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Wonderous
I've never understood it, and I suppose I never will. Fate; I hate that word. It implies God's will. It disgraces the freedom you thought you had in making that choice. It has the power to choke your dreams or to bring two seemingly random events together from across oceans or great land masses.
"If it was meant to be..." Oh, how I hate that aphorism! And yet, I live by it and stand by it. Everything in my life was either meant to be, or not meant to be. The illusions of choice and consequence- it's all predetermined.
But by whom? God? Certainly not our mythical creator. The universe, perhaps, in all its mysterious glory. Within the vastness of that endless enigma contain the fibers and strands of our lives. Stretched across space and time are all possible futures beholden to you, me, and the rest of humanity.
It's so indistinct, this fate business. You don't feel it, you can't smell or taste it. Some people don't even believe in it. But I swear to you that it is there. I believe in it. Coincidences occur far too often to be dismissed as just that...
I have no concrete theory. There is no scientific proof. It's a feeling I have, and a lifetime of events and circumstances that either were, or weren't. Nothing more than that.
I used to spend hours lost in the possibility. Poised on the fine line between faith and knowledge, I'd wonder why this was the hand I was dealt. So many things were beyond my control. What is to become of me in the grand scheme of things?
And yet at every turn, I find myself absorbed in contradiction. I believe so strongly in fate, and at the same time, choice. I believe that making one choice over another can veer you off one path and onto the next. But there is only the illusion of choice, because once again we seek to find the definition of "path" as it used in this context.
I've delved, once before, into the dimensions. Seeking to understand even my own beliefs, I've considered the planes on which we exist and those above us which we cannot see. We are so disillusioned- At the top of the food chain and the masters of our world, we humans tend to forget how small we really are.
(I would venture, too, to say powerless, but that seems to go hand and hand with the ever popular argument of fate vs free will.)
I am remiss to believe that I am powerless in choosing my own destiny, but I am not so bold as to think that my destiny is of my own choosing.
We are molded and influenced constantly. From infancy, we spend our lives making discoveries that shape our personalities, which then leads us down our paths and to our destinies. How we feel, how we learn; occasionally we have a choice, but oftentimes there is none.
All we really have to cling to is right now. The present. The past is speculatory, the future a mystery; but right now. Right now I know exactly who I am, what I like, and what I want. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? That's the mystery of life.
We are clueless. We know so much and yet so little. We can't afford our delusions of grandeur. There is still so much to learn. But in that learning, as we move one day at a time, we will perhaps come to find that fate and free will have spiraled together. Maybe someday I'll come to understand that the two are one and the same. But for now, and amidst all my idle ramblings, I am filled with wonder.
Where will I go from here? Will I ever see you again?
"If it was meant to be..." Oh, how I hate that aphorism! And yet, I live by it and stand by it. Everything in my life was either meant to be, or not meant to be. The illusions of choice and consequence- it's all predetermined.
But by whom? God? Certainly not our mythical creator. The universe, perhaps, in all its mysterious glory. Within the vastness of that endless enigma contain the fibers and strands of our lives. Stretched across space and time are all possible futures beholden to you, me, and the rest of humanity.
It's so indistinct, this fate business. You don't feel it, you can't smell or taste it. Some people don't even believe in it. But I swear to you that it is there. I believe in it. Coincidences occur far too often to be dismissed as just that...
I have no concrete theory. There is no scientific proof. It's a feeling I have, and a lifetime of events and circumstances that either were, or weren't. Nothing more than that.
I used to spend hours lost in the possibility. Poised on the fine line between faith and knowledge, I'd wonder why this was the hand I was dealt. So many things were beyond my control. What is to become of me in the grand scheme of things?
And yet at every turn, I find myself absorbed in contradiction. I believe so strongly in fate, and at the same time, choice. I believe that making one choice over another can veer you off one path and onto the next. But there is only the illusion of choice, because once again we seek to find the definition of "path" as it used in this context.
I've delved, once before, into the dimensions. Seeking to understand even my own beliefs, I've considered the planes on which we exist and those above us which we cannot see. We are so disillusioned- At the top of the food chain and the masters of our world, we humans tend to forget how small we really are.
(I would venture, too, to say powerless, but that seems to go hand and hand with the ever popular argument of fate vs free will.)
I am remiss to believe that I am powerless in choosing my own destiny, but I am not so bold as to think that my destiny is of my own choosing.
We are molded and influenced constantly. From infancy, we spend our lives making discoveries that shape our personalities, which then leads us down our paths and to our destinies. How we feel, how we learn; occasionally we have a choice, but oftentimes there is none.
All we really have to cling to is right now. The present. The past is speculatory, the future a mystery; but right now. Right now I know exactly who I am, what I like, and what I want. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? That's the mystery of life.
We are clueless. We know so much and yet so little. We can't afford our delusions of grandeur. There is still so much to learn. But in that learning, as we move one day at a time, we will perhaps come to find that fate and free will have spiraled together. Maybe someday I'll come to understand that the two are one and the same. But for now, and amidst all my idle ramblings, I am filled with wonder.
Where will I go from here? Will I ever see you again?
Thursday, November 24, 2011
"Here I am 5 o’clock in the morning stuffing bread crumbs up a dead bird’s butt."
For years, I had a thanksgiving tradition with my Mom. We woke up and cooked the turkey (usually large enough to serve 18 people) while we watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Later in the afternoon, our family would begin arriving, each member carrying a dish or a dessert that they had prepared specifically for our feast. I remember as a child thinking that all these dishes (string bean casseroles, sweet potato pie, jello molds, cobbler, etc.) must have been difficult to prepare and that they’d spent hours in the kitchen slaving away over their delicious perfections. I mean, hell, the turkey itself took two hours to prepare and four hours to cook.
But this year it is a little bit different. There are five of us at the table. And the turkey – it’s not even a turkey. It’s just the breast. It took half the time to cook and prepare. But it’s not the size of the turkey or the number of guests at our table that caused a stir; it is that this year, I helped prepare the other dishes – the dishes that up until now I believed my relatives slaved away over a stove all day making. And what really shocked me (and I say this as comically as I possibly can), is how wrong my expectations had been. I must have had a lot of faith in my family to actually expect them to spend hours “slaving” over a stove. I suppose I should have known my family doesn’t “slave.” More importantly, I probably should have expected that everything they make in the kitchen would have taken as little effort as possible.
The jello mold took ten minutes, the string bean casserole took twenty, my mother bought dessert from the bakery, and my Nana’s sweet potato pie – a dish that to me was the most anticipated, most delicious, and most yearned after to learn how to prepare – was the easiest of them all. Nana once joked with me that a sweet potato pie took three hours to make because she had to peel the potatoes, soak them to make them soft, slice up the pineapple and then mix them up all together. Turns out her biggest secret is that it took twenty minutes to make. And she didn’t peel potatoes, soak ‘em, and slice up the pineapples. She bought cans!! And all we had to do was open them, pour them into a big bowl, mash them up, and put them into a casserole dish. That was it! The most time consuming part was the mashing! And don’t you know Nana would kill me if she knew I was giving away her secret.
I think what disappoints me the most (and again, I say this comically), is the way my imagination far exceeded reality when it came to Thanksgiving and my family’s effort. It was like being a little girl with dreams that one day I’d host a Thanksgiving dinner, spend all day cooking and knowing that my family was doing the same, thus making our impending feast that much more rewarding, turned into a harsh reality that I could probably cook the whole damn dinner by myself and not even break a sweat.
Regardless, I suppose I can be relieved that as a girl who is more likely to burn down the kitchen than produce anything edible, contributing (or better yet, hosting) my own Thanksgiving meal down the road may not be as farfetched as I had previously imagined. Somehow, I’m able to bake gooey cookies, chewy brownies, and make a wicked macaroni and cheese, so perhaps the skill level needed to produce our family’s traditional Thanksgiving meal is within my range. Instead of being disappointed in the lack of effort needed, I should be grateful. After all, this is a holiday in which you count your blessings. So here is to a simple Thanksgiving with simple dishes, and going forward, very simple expectations.
Happy Thanksgiving.
But this year it is a little bit different. There are five of us at the table. And the turkey – it’s not even a turkey. It’s just the breast. It took half the time to cook and prepare. But it’s not the size of the turkey or the number of guests at our table that caused a stir; it is that this year, I helped prepare the other dishes – the dishes that up until now I believed my relatives slaved away over a stove all day making. And what really shocked me (and I say this as comically as I possibly can), is how wrong my expectations had been. I must have had a lot of faith in my family to actually expect them to spend hours “slaving” over a stove. I suppose I should have known my family doesn’t “slave.” More importantly, I probably should have expected that everything they make in the kitchen would have taken as little effort as possible.
The jello mold took ten minutes, the string bean casserole took twenty, my mother bought dessert from the bakery, and my Nana’s sweet potato pie – a dish that to me was the most anticipated, most delicious, and most yearned after to learn how to prepare – was the easiest of them all. Nana once joked with me that a sweet potato pie took three hours to make because she had to peel the potatoes, soak them to make them soft, slice up the pineapple and then mix them up all together. Turns out her biggest secret is that it took twenty minutes to make. And she didn’t peel potatoes, soak ‘em, and slice up the pineapples. She bought cans!! And all we had to do was open them, pour them into a big bowl, mash them up, and put them into a casserole dish. That was it! The most time consuming part was the mashing! And don’t you know Nana would kill me if she knew I was giving away her secret.
I think what disappoints me the most (and again, I say this comically), is the way my imagination far exceeded reality when it came to Thanksgiving and my family’s effort. It was like being a little girl with dreams that one day I’d host a Thanksgiving dinner, spend all day cooking and knowing that my family was doing the same, thus making our impending feast that much more rewarding, turned into a harsh reality that I could probably cook the whole damn dinner by myself and not even break a sweat.
Regardless, I suppose I can be relieved that as a girl who is more likely to burn down the kitchen than produce anything edible, contributing (or better yet, hosting) my own Thanksgiving meal down the road may not be as farfetched as I had previously imagined. Somehow, I’m able to bake gooey cookies, chewy brownies, and make a wicked macaroni and cheese, so perhaps the skill level needed to produce our family’s traditional Thanksgiving meal is within my range. Instead of being disappointed in the lack of effort needed, I should be grateful. After all, this is a holiday in which you count your blessings. So here is to a simple Thanksgiving with simple dishes, and going forward, very simple expectations.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Choice and Consequence: Your Malicious Discontent
Here’s the thing about idle gossip – It’s childish. Never mind the fact that the “holy book” tells you not to do it, it just makes you look bad. When you partake in spreading gossip, you lend proof to the dissatisfaction of your life. You’re telling the world that your life and your ideas are of little worth to you or anyone else, and you’ve got nothing better to do than talk about something that is none of your concern.
A few things happen the moment you decide to open your mouth and share the juice, so to speak. First, you give everyone a reason not to trust you. Why would anyone tell you their secrets when they know you’re the kind of person who is going to turn around and tell everyone else you know? You instantly become the one everyone looks over his or her shoulders for. All conversation grinds to a halt when you enter the room. Second, you lose all your creditability. Have you ever played the “Telephone Game?” It’s a child’s game, where one person whispers one thing in someone else’s ear, then that person whispers what they heard into another’s ear, and so on and so forth. By the time the last person gets the message, it’s so morphed from its original form that everyone laughs and wonders how they got it so wrong. The same thing happens with gossip, but it’s not as funny. It’s a crueler version of the game that we play, and the person about whom we’re discussing ends up hurt. So now, not only do you, the gossiper, look like a lying fool, but you look like an ass too. Lastly, when you talk, your good name dies and you shrink. Forget walking tall. You’re the kind of person who’s got nothing to be proud of, unless you’re okay looking like an imbecile.
Eleanor Roosevelt once quoted, "Great mind discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, small minds discuss people.” So the next time you decide to open your mouth and spread that juicy, malicious gossip, consider this: you are the image you create of yourself. Talk, and give everyone a reason to skirt around you like you’re a poisonous plant. What goes around comes around. And the next time you need a shoulder to lean on (because that time will one day come), you’ll have two choices. You can hope and pray that the person you confide in will not take your story to the papers. You can hope and pray that your misfortunes will not the next topic on everyone’s lips. You can hope and pray, in vain, that you will be pitied and not preyed upon. Or, you can suffer. Alone.
A few things happen the moment you decide to open your mouth and share the juice, so to speak. First, you give everyone a reason not to trust you. Why would anyone tell you their secrets when they know you’re the kind of person who is going to turn around and tell everyone else you know? You instantly become the one everyone looks over his or her shoulders for. All conversation grinds to a halt when you enter the room. Second, you lose all your creditability. Have you ever played the “Telephone Game?” It’s a child’s game, where one person whispers one thing in someone else’s ear, then that person whispers what they heard into another’s ear, and so on and so forth. By the time the last person gets the message, it’s so morphed from its original form that everyone laughs and wonders how they got it so wrong. The same thing happens with gossip, but it’s not as funny. It’s a crueler version of the game that we play, and the person about whom we’re discussing ends up hurt. So now, not only do you, the gossiper, look like a lying fool, but you look like an ass too. Lastly, when you talk, your good name dies and you shrink. Forget walking tall. You’re the kind of person who’s got nothing to be proud of, unless you’re okay looking like an imbecile.
Eleanor Roosevelt once quoted, "Great mind discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, small minds discuss people.” So the next time you decide to open your mouth and spread that juicy, malicious gossip, consider this: you are the image you create of yourself. Talk, and give everyone a reason to skirt around you like you’re a poisonous plant. What goes around comes around. And the next time you need a shoulder to lean on (because that time will one day come), you’ll have two choices. You can hope and pray that the person you confide in will not take your story to the papers. You can hope and pray that your misfortunes will not the next topic on everyone’s lips. You can hope and pray, in vain, that you will be pitied and not preyed upon. Or, you can suffer. Alone.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
A Plea to the Artisans
I feel scared. And I feel silly for being scared. Shouldn’t there be a certain amount of time that needs to pass before a college graduate begins to fear about her future?
As children, we watched grown-ups run the world. They produce entertainment, come up with inventions, save lives, make money, make music, etc. Basically, they have jobs and they contribute something to society somehow. As we grow older, we begin to understand that our time will come too, and from then on, we begin to fantasize about our adult lives will be like. Will we be rich? Will we be famous? Will we be successful? Never once did we consider the possibility of failing or facing hardships to get to where we want to be. Then again, did we even consider what our first steps would actually be?
I don’t believe I did. I think I always assumed I’d find a job, start my life, and that would be that. Instead, I find myself stressed about my capabilities and my skills, wondering why after sending two dozen resumes I have not gotten a single call back.
How many people are in this boat with me?
I can’t decide who’s to blame here. Is it us, for not choosing a more practical career path, or is it society and the monetary system (something I despise, which you’ll come to learn) for demanding a certain way of life. We are conditioned to go to school, then take our place in society with the role of our choosing, and make money from it so that we may live.
And without getting off track too much, why is our quality of life determined by how much money we make? Isn’t enough that we’re alive on this planet, that we live and breathe the same air?
Regardless of whom I want to blame (society) I can’t help now but to blame myself. I’m an artisan. I have a craft, and I need to do it. It’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only thing I want to do. It’s the only thing that makes me happy. Why should I put myself through the torture of having to do something I don’t want to do to so I can live a decent quality of life?
I’m scared now because I don’t like the answer to that question. I don’t like the options available to me. I spent my childhood years believing that when I was finally “grown-up” I’d be happy. I could focus on what I wanted to do and what I was good at, and I could be happy. And while I know that this is only the beginning, and this is just a minor setback, I feel smothered from the get go.
But this is what I have. These words. My words. My ideas and my craft. And I speak to those who relate; you know who you are. I wont give up. I wont sacrifice my happiness or my quality of life. I will do what I do best and I will be successful because I will be happy. My quality of life will be superb.
I urge you to do the same.
As children, we watched grown-ups run the world. They produce entertainment, come up with inventions, save lives, make money, make music, etc. Basically, they have jobs and they contribute something to society somehow. As we grow older, we begin to understand that our time will come too, and from then on, we begin to fantasize about our adult lives will be like. Will we be rich? Will we be famous? Will we be successful? Never once did we consider the possibility of failing or facing hardships to get to where we want to be. Then again, did we even consider what our first steps would actually be?
I don’t believe I did. I think I always assumed I’d find a job, start my life, and that would be that. Instead, I find myself stressed about my capabilities and my skills, wondering why after sending two dozen resumes I have not gotten a single call back.
How many people are in this boat with me?
I can’t decide who’s to blame here. Is it us, for not choosing a more practical career path, or is it society and the monetary system (something I despise, which you’ll come to learn) for demanding a certain way of life. We are conditioned to go to school, then take our place in society with the role of our choosing, and make money from it so that we may live.
And without getting off track too much, why is our quality of life determined by how much money we make? Isn’t enough that we’re alive on this planet, that we live and breathe the same air?
Regardless of whom I want to blame (society) I can’t help now but to blame myself. I’m an artisan. I have a craft, and I need to do it. It’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only thing I want to do. It’s the only thing that makes me happy. Why should I put myself through the torture of having to do something I don’t want to do to so I can live a decent quality of life?
I’m scared now because I don’t like the answer to that question. I don’t like the options available to me. I spent my childhood years believing that when I was finally “grown-up” I’d be happy. I could focus on what I wanted to do and what I was good at, and I could be happy. And while I know that this is only the beginning, and this is just a minor setback, I feel smothered from the get go.
But this is what I have. These words. My words. My ideas and my craft. And I speak to those who relate; you know who you are. I wont give up. I wont sacrifice my happiness or my quality of life. I will do what I do best and I will be successful because I will be happy. My quality of life will be superb.
I urge you to do the same.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
One Is Silver And The Other Is Gold
Last week, I met with an old friend from high school. It had been five years since the last time we spoke, and it seemed like no time had passed at all. Our friendship picked up exactly where we left off. The same happened two years ago with another friend, and we are tighter now than we have ever been. It brings to mind an aphorism I once heard, "true friendship is not measure by how much time you spend with each other, but by being apart, and coming together like no time has passed."
This couldn't be more accurate, but there's more to true friendship than being separated and then reuniting. It's about who you're excited to see and talk to. In high school, a friend is someone you hang out with, but I've learned that you don't to have an excess amount of time with someone in order to call them a friend. For example, Scott* is someone that I only saw on the way to class, each of us pausing for a only a minute during our busy say to say hey. We'd invite each other to do thing over the weekend, but we never did. We also never held that against one another. Four years later, I looked forward to running into Scott and telling him the latest news in my life.
Scott also liked to listen, which brings me to another point. A friend will hear what you say and remember it. Another friend of mine forgets everything I've told him, and I've reached the point where I tell him very little, because I know he'll never remember the next time we talk. As a result, I'm not as eager to see him, and when we do get together, we have long moments of awkward silence.
Of course, short of listing all the way that someone can be a good friend, versus how someone can be a bad friend, there's no real guideline. A friendship is what you make of it. If you have a friend who you see multiple times a week, but can't hold to the plans that have been made, what does that say for the relationship itself? Then compare that friend to someone you only see a few times a year, but values what time you do have together; who is the better companion?
To treat someone the way you want to be treated in an age-old criterion that everyone would do well to remember. It's a standard that portrays to your peers the level of respect you demand. If a friend can't live up to that expectation, what is there to salvage? This answer varies depending on who you ask, and who is being judged. Each person is different, as is each relationship, and it's difficult to put any sort of label on it. Regardless, a friendship, good or bad, is only what you determine it to be.
*Name has been changed
This couldn't be more accurate, but there's more to true friendship than being separated and then reuniting. It's about who you're excited to see and talk to. In high school, a friend is someone you hang out with, but I've learned that you don't to have an excess amount of time with someone in order to call them a friend. For example, Scott* is someone that I only saw on the way to class, each of us pausing for a only a minute during our busy say to say hey. We'd invite each other to do thing over the weekend, but we never did. We also never held that against one another. Four years later, I looked forward to running into Scott and telling him the latest news in my life.
Scott also liked to listen, which brings me to another point. A friend will hear what you say and remember it. Another friend of mine forgets everything I've told him, and I've reached the point where I tell him very little, because I know he'll never remember the next time we talk. As a result, I'm not as eager to see him, and when we do get together, we have long moments of awkward silence.
Of course, short of listing all the way that someone can be a good friend, versus how someone can be a bad friend, there's no real guideline. A friendship is what you make of it. If you have a friend who you see multiple times a week, but can't hold to the plans that have been made, what does that say for the relationship itself? Then compare that friend to someone you only see a few times a year, but values what time you do have together; who is the better companion?
To treat someone the way you want to be treated in an age-old criterion that everyone would do well to remember. It's a standard that portrays to your peers the level of respect you demand. If a friend can't live up to that expectation, what is there to salvage? This answer varies depending on who you ask, and who is being judged. Each person is different, as is each relationship, and it's difficult to put any sort of label on it. Regardless, a friendship, good or bad, is only what you determine it to be.
*Name has been changed
Friday, August 27, 2010
An Amazing Thing Called Scotch Tape
The first thing I did was shed my childhood. Or most of it anyway. I performed an all-out therapeutic cleaning of my room. From wall to wall, floor to ceiling, every nook and cranny. I had things stashed away from my elementary days and earlier. My entire life had been kept stuffed under the bed, hidden away in drawers, and and high up on closet shelves.
I had games, books, unfinished arts and crafts projects, packets and packets of notebook paper, office supplies. There were clothes I haven't worn since middle school, books I haven't touched since Pre-K, and stuffed animals like you wouldn't believe.
The entire process took three weeks. My floor became a dumping ground. I filled three trash bags with trash, and two with items to be donated. I took down old posters and stashed away my stuff animals. And of course there were the things I never used. Like this frog candle.
I kept a fair amount. Some of it was turned into keepsake material, and everything else just found a new home amongst my shelves. A majority of the books were kept, including my paperback collection, and now reside on the shelves on my wall. Plus, I have an actual desk and workspace now.
Cleaning my room was more than just getting rid of old stuff. It was clearing my head and letting go of my past. I'm moving forward, as I rightly should, and in that I'm letting go of who I used to be. It's lot less clutter to deal with.
I had games, books, unfinished arts and crafts projects, packets and packets of notebook paper, office supplies. There were clothes I haven't worn since middle school, books I haven't touched since Pre-K, and stuffed animals like you wouldn't believe.
The entire process took three weeks. My floor became a dumping ground. I filled three trash bags with trash, and two with items to be donated. I took down old posters and stashed away my stuff animals. And of course there were the things I never used. Like this frog candle.
I kept a fair amount. Some of it was turned into keepsake material, and everything else just found a new home amongst my shelves. A majority of the books were kept, including my paperback collection, and now reside on the shelves on my wall. Plus, I have an actual desk and workspace now.
Cleaning my room was more than just getting rid of old stuff. It was clearing my head and letting go of my past. I'm moving forward, as I rightly should, and in that I'm letting go of who I used to be. It's lot less clutter to deal with.
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