Accept—then act. Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it…This will miraculously transform your whole life.

Eckhart Tolle (via thakate)

Thank You, Dear Reader

Ideas are the beginning points of all fortunes.

Napoleon Hill 

When I started this weblog not long ago, I had no idea where it was headed. In fact, I still don’t. The one thing I knew is that I wanted to start conversations, and I must admit this was a thoroughly selfish motive. See, I am an odd sort of fellow who seems to surround himself with wonderful people, but people who, nevertheless, are seldom interested in the things that interest me- so I turned myself over the powers of the modern web. The web is, almost literally, anything and everything, but arguably its true talent is to spark conversations.

So I wrote. I wrote to get the things in my head out of my head and onto the unprinted page, and by and large, my goal has been accomplished, though it will never be over. For one reason or another, the comments section of this blog has never exactly exploded, but the discussions have nevertheless appeared, usually in the form of email. You, wonderful reader, you, have many times emailed me your thoughts on my latest ramblings, and many of them have contained poignant insights, useful criticisms, or a simple word of thanks. A handful of you who know me personally have even called on occasion to give me your thoughts on something I’ve written. I want to thank you, because that, again, is why I write. The thoughts in my head, even in being “put to paper,” are not tremendously useful in and of themselves- they must be tossed into the air, where they can jump and run and play and frolic with your ideas, and come back down to me richer, wiser, and more thoughtful.

As I said, I still don’t know where this blog is going. I started it with a few digital meanderings, which somehow morphed into life lessons of a sort, half-baked philosophical word collages, and the like. Perhaps I’ll find the sweet spot between the two: one of my greatest passions is the intersection of the digital world with the physical, and its effect on both individuals and society. Either way, it doesn’t matter, as long as I have fantastic readers, many of you fellow bloggers, with whom to exchange ideas. So, again, thank you. Here’s to keeping the conversation going.

insooutso:

[gallery]

You must write, and read, as if your life depended on it.

Adrienne Rich, What is Found There: Notebooks on Poetry and Politics  (via awritersruminations)

On Vulnerability (A Special Edition)

I find myself thinking about despair today. I tend to hold an existentialist worldview, maintaining that the universe is inherently void of meaning, which lends itself to viewing the world as a blank slate. If there is no meaning, then one must create his own meaning. The problem with the existentialist view, though, is that, even if rare, despair eventually rears its head, climbing into bed with you to ensure that its face is the first you see when you open your eyes one unsuspecting morning. Typically, I take one of two approaches to these days: I either reason my way out of them, or succumb to them completely- sometimes the most effective method of dealing with unwanted emotions is to allow them to defeat you, even if only for a time.

It will be difficult, to say the least, to succumb to despair using the medium of the blinking cursor now before me. That being the case, let me use this cursor in pursuit of the first method: reason.

The post I’ve most wanted to write of late concerns the role of vulnerability in our lives- its purpose and its advantages. Two things have stimulated this thought process in me: a fantastically brilliant TED talk by Brené Brown, and a film I recently watched. In her talk, Brown argues (and I’m paraphrasing) that only true vulnerability leads to true human connection, and that human connection is the heart and soul, so to speak, of existence. That being the case, the conclusion seems to be that vulnerability, in its rawest form, is vital to the human condition.

The film contained an epiphany of the same sort, albeit much simpler. In it, two people made a powerful connection with each other, and I began to wonder, and then to investigate, exactly what led to this connection. The answer came in a rush: it was the vulnerability of one character, who exposed herself to a very raw, even humiliating level. There were no garments left to hide her soul- it revealed itself to be quite flawed, desperate and frightened, of the one thing that has the uncanny ability to petrify the strongest of us: ourselves. Her emotion was naked, and the effect on the witness of this undressing was powerful. The effect on her was even more so: though her eyes radiated with fear, her body moved as if it was tasting true freedom for the first time, bursting from the shackles of facade.

The effect was, curiously, just as powerful on her witness, and it seems to me to be so for precisely the opposite reasons. Whereas the Vulnerable is freed by humility, the Witness is empowered. Being deemed worthy of such nakedness, the Witness cannot help but feel like the Chosen One, and indeed he is. He’s been chosen to witness the undressing of a soul to its most basic element: helplessness. And if helplessness (vulnerability) is the most basic element of our existence, it is then by definition the core component of us all, and the Witness cannot help but see it in his own soul. Therein lies the connection- the silken thread connecting us all. When a moment of vulnerability radiates from a person’s very self, it also shines a light on the thread connecting all of us, so that Witness and Vulnerable feel as if the Universe is revealing a true secret to them, hitherto unseen by the rest of us.

These thoughts came streaming to me in a flood as I realized that, in writing a story, in order to create a true connection between two people, one character must be exposed, completely and utterly. This fact now seems as obvious to me as the grass beneath my feet.

How, then, can I use this knowledge to fend off despair? The answer, now, seems obvious: I must make myself vulnerable. If connection is truly the heart of existence, despair must be the lack of connection, and thus a lack of vulnerability.

Exposure is not an easy thing for me to do. I’m typically a fairly secretive person. In fact, I can honestly say that there’s not a single person on the face of the planet who truly knows me. Even those who think they do only see variations of a different mask. True, a select few see a much thinner veil than most, but no one has seen the mask removed. Ever.

So, in this spirit, let’s peel back the mask a bit.

I cannot begin to describe how petrified I am of my future. When I was a kid, there were, at various stages, a few things I was quite good at: it began with baseball, which gave way to academics, then acting, all intertwined with a bit of poetry and some dabbling with essays. Throughout childhood, it was always assumed by those who knew me that I would excel at one of these things as an adult. To date, however, I’m not a baseball player, or an actor, or a scholar. These things, as a matter of fact, I’ve failed at, quite miserably. What, then, is left? Writing. Only writing.

I realize now why I’ve waited until thirty-one years of age to get so serious about writing: it’s the only facade I have left. Everyone who knows me thinks of me as a fairly talented writer. If I pursue this, then, and I fail: what is left to define me? What- who- will I be?

I’ve also dabbled in design a bit lately. I’ve laid out my goal before: no longer will I be a salesman, peddling products I myself don’t believe in to unsuspecting victims by way of manipulation and cheap mind tricks. I’ll create things: with words and with code. The writer/ designer that, while already becoming a bit cliché, seems to give more meaning to my existence, and will allow me to follow my daughter wherever her stepfather takes her. Complete mobility is the goal, a circumstance in which, as long as I have my laptop, I can make a living. If I fail, then, it means that I may not be able to watch my daughter grow up. That thought is nothing short of unbearable.

So I must learn. I must write, and fail, and design, and fail, and try, and try, and try. The stakes are high. I believe, though, that in the end, the connections made along the way will prove to be the most valuable of gems. I will connect to my fellow human beings; I will connect to myself, and I will connect to my daughter, by providing an example that will, one day, when she reads my words, make her proud to be my daughter. There is, I think, no nobler pursuit than that, and no surer way to fend off the advances of despair than by seeing the light in my child’s eyes when she looks back into mine with pride. That is the real- the only real- connection.

On Lying to Yourself

Happiness is not right around the corner, though I know so many who feel that it is. For this to be true, life must be a journey of sorts. It is not. Instead, it is an almost infinite series of moments, strung together so finely so as to give the illusion of oneness, of one straight, measurable line. We are not walking a line. We are living a series of moments.

I recently read a wonderful piece by Sara Robinson entitled Why We Have to go Back to a 40-hour Workweek to Keep our Sanity. In it, Robinson shines a light on the destructiveness of an all-consuming work life. Like any great truth, though, this thought process can (and must) be applied to every other corner of our lives.

The American Dream has deceived us. What began as a seedling with limitless potential to bear fruit has become a thorny, tangled mess, luring us in through the promise of beauty, and ensnaring us in its prickly branches. The American Dream says this: that if you work harder than everyone else, you will one day have a beautiful home, family, and career. You will have a fine house, a beautiful car, an impressive job, 2.5 children, and a loving spouse. What’s never mentioned- only deceitfully implied- is that happiness is part of the package- that once you possess (so to speak) these things, you will be endowed with joy- that, as soon as you turn that corner, you will see happiness, gift-wrapped and waiting just for you. The illusion only works, however, if you don’t see the series of moments passing you by, only seeing the illusory straight line. And if you’re keeping yourself busy in the pursuit of The Dream, you’ll only ever see the line. To see the moments requires one to slow down, to reflect, to look. Do you see those little moments? The bedtime story with your child? The satisfaction you felt the last time you created something? The last time you did something you’d never done before? That walk you took a few months ago to clear your head? Keep looking. You’ll see them. Once you do, we can move on.

If Happiness is not to be found in The Dream, where, then, is it to be found? You may be surprised to hear that I have the answer. In short, there is no answer. At least, not a universal or objective one. It’s the most relative and subjective of all questions, in fact. You alone can answer it. There are a few tips and tricks that might be learned, of course: the man who blurs the line between work and play is generally a very happy man. (In fact, lest you misunderstand the above paragraph, note that I'm not discounting the value of hard work; on the contrary, in fact: few things leave one feeling as satisfied.) The woman who’s learned to perfectly balance work and home life can say the same. Finding an adequate amount of personal time amidst the hustle and bustle of your obligations will certainly help. Ultimately, however, only you can know what makes you happy. Truth be told, though, discovering what makes you happy is the easy part. The next phase is quite difficult: doing.

This is where Robinson’s advice comes in handy.

Control- the Gift and the Curse

On one hand, if happiness is so individual, you’re the only one responsible for your own happiness. That’s quite the burden to shoulder. On the other hand, you’re the only one responsible for your happiness. The meaning of your life is yours to create: do with it what you will. There is, I think, no greater freedom than taking full control of your future.

Robinson delves into the idea that, until very recently, limiting your employees (or yourself) to a forty-hour workweek was considered the only healthy way to do things, both in regards to personal health and a company’s profit margin. A truly healthy company- and its employees- recognize the importance of well-rested and mentally nourished employees. The same applies to all of us in our personal lives.

Task lists and busy lives are not the goal- they are, in fact, an obstacle. Being busy for the sake of being busy accomplishes nothing. Most of us realize this, however- and dismiss it out of hand. I’m not busy for the sake of being busy. I just have lots of very important things to do. Therein lies another problem. None of us want to be told, least of all by ourselves, that the things that we’re doing aren’t truly all that important. If we’re honest with ourselves, though- if we take a good, hard, brutal look- we realize that our priorities, by and large, are all mixed up. The result is that we convince ourselves that we don’t have time for trivial things like relaxation, the right amount of sleep, or enriching our social prowess by reading. The truth is that these things are crucial to a well-lived life. Just like at work, burning ourselves out in our “spare” time by not having any spare time leads to an unhealthy you, and an unhealthy you gets less done and lives a less joyful life. Want proof? If you have kids, there's an easy test to administer. Ask your child if he or she would rather have fifteen minutes of your undivided attention 1) sandwiched between two typical day-to-day tasks or 2) after you've just returned from a peaceful walk.

One great technique is this: instead of saying that you don’t have time to relax, or to read your child that bedtime story, tell yourself that it’s simply not a priority. You’d be surprised how often this is true: would you really rather iron a shirt than take a walk? Watch the latest episode of The Killing or learn another language? We all have the same amount of time in a given day. The hard truth is that you’ve created your busy day and you can take it back again.

I must govern the clock, not be governed by it.

Golda Meir

Most of us can trim up to a couple of hours of free time per day from our busy schedules. Even if it’s only an hour, imagine what you could do with an extra 365 hours a year. Once you find this spare time, you now have the luxury of filling it. Fill it with extra sleep, meditation, a good book- whatever makes you feel whole again. These are the keys to a joyful life. Outside of work, you are your own boss. If you’ve been working yourself overtime, scale yourself back to the metaphorical forty hours, and live, laugh, and love again. You'll be a better person for it.

ageofreason:

Wise words from Littlebear

Let us go on to consider desire. We know, do we not, the desire which contradicts itself, which is tortured, pulling in different directions; the pain, the turmoil, the anxiety of desire, and the disciplining, the controlling. And in the everlasting battle with it we twist it out of all shape and recognition; but it is there, constantly watching, waiting, pushing. Do what you will, sublimate it, escape from it, deny it or accept it, give it full rein: it is always there. And we know how the religious teachers and others have said that we should be desireless, cultivate detachment, be free from desire, which is really absurd, because desire has to be understood, not destroyed. If you destroy desire, you may destroy life itself. If you pervert desire, shape it, control it, dominate it, suppress it, you may be destroying something extraordinarily beautiful.

 Jiddu Krishnamurti, The Book of Life (via fuckyeahexistentialism)

“What now on the other hand makes people sociable is their incapacity to endure solitude and thus themselves.” —Arthur Schopenhauer, Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life.

Fuck Yeah, Solitude.:  

Sinatra's rules for getting dressed.

(via metheliving)

Sinatra's rules for getting dressed.

When you reread a classic, you do not see more in the book than you did before; you see more in you than there was before.

Cliff Fadiman (via earlyfrost)

Live a life of commitment. Project your values and proclaim your highest standards, then do your best to consistently meet them every day. Face down your fear and make your word your promise, then keep your promises. When you fail—and you will—acknowledge the shame you’ve earned and earnestly commit yourself to doing better and being better. That is how you grow, and only in this way may you grow.

Andy Rutledge (via rianvdm)

Buddha says: Meditation brings two things. It brings wisdom, it brings freedom. These two flowers grow out of meditation. When you become silent, utterly silent, beyond the mind, two flowers bloom in you. One is of wisdom: you know what is and what is not. And the other is of freedom: you know now there are no more limitations on you, either of time or of space. You become liberated. Meditation is the key to liberation, to freedom, to wisdom.

Osho (via lazyyogi)

I said to the sun, ‘Tell me about the big bang.’ The sun said, ‘it hurts to become.’

Andrea Gibson (via lifeincoffeespoons)

Weekend Reading

This week's reading contained so many gems, it was difficult to narrow the field down to the five most worthy of you, dear reader. I did manage, though. On a side note, I've decided that for those sites which require it, I'll be posting the Readability view of these articles. For those whose site is already in a beautiful, readable view, I'll link to the original. Enjoy: 

• I recently discovered How We Will Read, which interviews a new web expert on the future of reading every week. This week: Craig Mod offers his unique insights.


• JD Bentley tells us the story of his termination from a custodial job, and why the experience was "a death gifting me with life."


• American Interest delves into the implications of Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilych, not only as a masterpiece of literature, but as a basis for the modern state of social psychology.


• It seems I've been saying this more and more often, but occasionally a piece pops up which I believe every American should read. This piece by James Gustave Speth, in which he details the bleak problems facing our nation, the causes, and the possible solutions, falls into that category: America the Possible.


• One of my favorite corners of the web- The Philosopher's Beard- takes a look at Jane Austen in a new light: not just as a pioneer in the field of social realism, but as a brilliantly subtle master of moral philosophy.


• Okay, just one more: in the New Yorker, David Remnick profiles the rising threat and implications of nationalism reaching dangerous and terrifying levels in Israel.    

Happy reading, Wonderists (as I've decided to call you). If you enjoyed this post, please share it with some awesome people with the handy buttons to your left.                                                                                                                                           

The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude.

Aldous Huxley

(via moreofamore)

We interrupt your regularly scheduled internet...

I've never posted a single link here on Wonderisms- that's what Tumblr is for- but this piece by @brainpicker is a Friday must-read. Poignant, timely, relevant, and just oh-so-good, it touches a topic near and dear to my heart. So, without further ado, click away:

E. B. White on the Free Press and the Evils of Corporate Interests in Media

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

Ernest Hemingway (via excessivebookshelf)

A word is not the same with one writer as it is with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.

William Wordsworth (via deadwriters)

kateoplis:

“When you have been lucky in your life you find that just about the time the best of the books run out (and I would rather read again for the first time Anna Karenina, Far Away and Long Ago, Buddenbrooks, Wuthering Heights, Madame Bovary, War and Peace, A Sportsman’s Sketches, The Brothers Karamozov, Hail and Farewell, Huckleberry Finn, Winesburg, Ohio, La Reine Margot, La Maison Tellier, Le Rouge et le Noire, La Chartreuse de Parme, Dubliners, Yeats’s Autobiographies and a few others than have an assured income of a million dollars a year) you have a lot of damned fine things that you can remember. Then when the time is over in which you have done the things that you can now remember, and while you are doing other things, you find you can read the books again, and, always, there are a few, a very few, good new ones. Last year there was La Condition Humaine by Andre Malraux. It was translated, I do not know how well, as Man’s Fate, and sometimes it is as good as Stendhal and that is something no prose writer has been in France for over fifty years.

But this is supposed to be about shooting, not about books, although some of the best shooting I remember was in Tolstoi and I have often wondered how the snipe fly in Russia now and whether shooting pheasants is counter-revolutionary. When you have loved three things all your life, from the earliest you can remember; to fish, to shoot and, later, to read; and when, all your life, the necessity to write has been your master, you learn to remember and, when you think back, you remember more fishing and shooting and reading than anything else and that is a pleasure.”

—Ernest Hemingway: Remembering Shooting-Flying: A Key West Letter, 1935

[photo: w/ his son Gregory, 1941, by Robert Capa]

Excuses, Excuses

I haven’t posted (read: created) anything here in a couple of weeks, mainly because the ideas haven’t exactly been forthcoming. There’s a reason for that, which I’ll explain, but for now I thought I’d get try to get the creative juices flowing by posting a journal entry of sorts, a brain dump: just to put pen to paper, so to speak.

I’m in Louisville for the month to see my daughter. Though I take every chance I get to see her, it’s not nearly often enough, I’m ashamed to admit. This is decidedly the motivating factor behind a few aspirations, ultimately all rolled into one: to write, both blogs and novels, and to teach myself web design. See, my daughter’s stepfather is a military man, and so he moves/ transfers every few years. If I want to spend the most amount of time with my daughter, ideally I have to be able to work from wherever I have internet access. Hence the attempted career shift to an entirely mobile one.

So, again, I’m here in Louisville to spend a month or so, which I like to do every so often. The writing environment, while satisfactory, is less than ideal, mainly because I’m simply not focused on it. While I’m here, the trivialities of my daughter’s life become my own, and while I wouldn’t have it any other way (no greater pleasure exists, in fact), it means that my writer’s brain must take a backseat to my father’s brain. Instead of waking up with the remnants of my dreams floating through my head, I wake with a mission: to see my daughter (her name is Jessica, by the way) off to school, to start her day properly. It’s a solid two and a half hours after I wake before I even begin to think of anything remotely resembling writing material. At home, I make myself stay away from the computer for an hour, at least, after I wake up, and perhaps do a small workout or read a bit. The freedom of my thoughts, though, allow my writer’s brain to stir during these precious morning hours, and usually by the time I sit down at my desk, those thoughts are begging to be penned. Not so here, as I’ve said. There- you have my excuse.

Another thought that emerges in regard to the writer’s brain: I missed the opportunity to audition for two wonderful plays in my absence: Beckett's Waiting for Godot (arguably the best play ever written) and Steve Martin’s Picasso at the Lapin Agile. The experience of being in a show in and of itself is an extremely valuable thing, but the material that is produced by stepping inside the world of another writer (the playwright) is immeasurable. Creativity, to use the term in its loosest sense, is an extremely contagious thing. I’ve yet to meet a creator who is not spurred on by immersing themselves in the creative works of others, especially those more talented. Part of this philosophy is reflected in the fact that the best writers are also the best readers.

Moving on- as I’ve said, it’s the most glorious of feelings to immerse myself in another creative pursuit- the molding of my daughter’s very self. There is, I think, no greater pursuit, and no greater challenge than the finest of lines that must be walked between directing a young mind, and letting that mind flourish of its own accord, wandering where it may. The desire between shielding her from harm and allowing her to make her own mistakes is mental tug-of-war that never ends. An example: yesterday, while jumping on the trampoline in the backyard with Jess and the neighbor’s boy, he revealed to me that she had broken his heart (they have... what’s the word for seven-year-old dating? We’ll go retro and use “going steady”). Later, Jess lamented that fact, telling me that she had only “broken up” with this boy so as not to upset her best friend, who was angry with her for even having liked him in the first place. Of course, this is a fine line to walk for her, too- where to draw that line between protecting the feelings of a friend and remaining true to your own feelings? I wanted so desperately to inform her of the ways of the world, what she should do, and how she should react- but this is something which she must not only learn for herself, but experience for herself. No amount of talk from me will embed in her fragile psyche the repercussions of the delicate dance of romance v. friendship.

She also inspires me to no end. The other morning, while waiting with her at the bus stop, she told me that she’s so fast that she can outrun the clouds. She spoke these words without the faintest trace of inhibition on her face. As far as she was concerned, she could indeed outrun the clouds. As an adult, we often feel that such blind and boundless optimism can be quite hazardous. Perhaps optimism, though, isn’t even the correct terminology here. She has an unbridled faith in herself- a characteristic from which the vast majority of adults I know could benefit wildly. I can’t help but wonder how much some of the people I love would have accomplished had they had this very same level of faith in themselves. Regret, as they say, lies only in the past, though, and the past is something which my daughter will have none of. Neither does she care much for the future, which, to extend the phrase, begets anxiety. She’s interested only in now, for as far as she’s concerned, the present is the only time that matters. The consequences of that philosophy couldn’t be any clearer- I see it in her face every time she’s enjoying the present moment. If you look at the face of the nearest child, you’ll see it, too. That’s not just the expression of a cherub-faced future grown-up: it’s the visible embodiment of now. And when you realize that simple truth, how truly great now really is.

I have the deepest affection for intellectual conversations. The ability to just sit and talk. About love, about life, about anything, about everything. To sit under the moon with all the time in the world, the full-speed train that is our lives slowing to a crawl. Bound by no obligations, barred by no human limitations. To speak without regret or fear of consequence. To talk for hours and about what’s really important in life.

(via metheliving)

Dreams.

Weekend Reading

First, let me apologize for missing last weekend's Weekend Reading post- it's been quite a busy week. I've decided to post all of these in Readability view. Let's get right to it: five articles worthy of your attention this weekend:

• Rollo Romig posits that the separation of church and state is impossible, and what that means for the future of our country. 


• Megan McArdle  takes a look at MIT's innovative new program, MITx, and what a post-campus America might look like.


• Sara Robinson provides an absolutely fascinating take on the role of birth control in our history, and our future, why we've underestimated that role, and why patriarchal men are petrified of it.


• On The Art of Manliness, freedom is reduced to its positive and negative forms, and why that distinction matters.


• Finally, my favorite of the week: Alexis Madrigal gives us a sort of manifesto for the web generation: a fascinating look at how those who have grown up in the Age of the Web perceive and react to the world differently than previous generations.

The problem, often not discovered until late in life, is that when you look for things in life like love, meaning, motivation, it implies they are sitting behind a tree or under a rock. The most successful people in life recognize, that in life they create their own love, they manufacture their own meaning, they generate their own motivation.

For me, I am driven by two main philosophies, know more today about the world than I knew yesterday. And lessen the suffering of others. You’d be surprised how far that gets you.

Neil deGrasse Tyson (via nickryan)

On Perfection

Artists who seek perfection in everything are those who cannot attain it in anything.

~ Gustave Flaubert

I’d like to spend a bit of time this morning evolving the concept of perfection. In the abstract, of course, there is no nobler pursuit. In reality, however, the pursuit of perfection can be cancerous. I know the disastrous effects this pursuit can render firsthand- I am a recovering perfectionist.

In the opening quote, Flaubert is speaking only of artists, of course, but there is no greater artist than he who paints himself against the canvas of the world, who seeks to find his place among the stars, or in his own heart. Self-growth is a mantra that always surrounds the swirling deluge of thoughts circling me. There are some who have no desire to improve themselves, and I don’t care to dwell on that type of person. For the rest of us, that improving ourselves every day is tantamount to living a life worthy of... well, life, is axiomatic.

It’s a double-edged sword, this mantra. On one hand, it is the pursuit of perfection that widens our eyes in wonder every morning. On the other, it can be a circular path to walk- when no less than perfection will do, the list of obstacles is, quite literally, never-ending, because our imperfections are infinite. To battle them is to battle infinity itself.

I recently had a conversation with a friend in which I used a bad metaphor to illustrate the challenges we face in the pursuit of self-growth. It may be a bad metaphor, but it is apt. Imagine that your task is to build a spectacular wedding cake. The foundation must be perfectly proportioned if it is to support the rest of, say, a seven-tier cake. Eventually, though, in constantly sculpting and re-sculpting the foundation, you come to realize that the past several hours have passed in this pursuit, and you’re left with little time, and not a fully-realized cake at all, but a near-perfect seventh of a cake.

So it is, I think, in our own pursuits. Each of us looks for a foundation within ourselves to build on. We want to be kind, strong, magnanimous, reasonable, intelligent... the list goes on. We would hardly like to build our very selves on a foundation of flaws, so we seek to correct (or worse, to erase) those imperfections. I am a bit stubborn. I’ve been told that I have to win every argument I enter into. I can on occasion seem too detached. I oversimplify things. Despite my best efforts, I drink entirely too much coffee, go on the offensive when cornered, and worst of all- I often think of my way of doing things as the only correct way. These, to say the least, are shortcomings, imperfections, but they are also a part of who I am. Were I to try to “fix” these things, that endeavor alone would consume my entire life, because they are such an inherent part of my nature. Were I to refuse to accept these things about myself, I would never be able to move onto the second, third, fourth tiers of my cake (me).

This, I think, is the mistake that so many like me make- the vicious cycle that many can’t seem to get past, because they can’t seem to accept that they, as works of art, contain imperfections. How much more valuable, though, are works that contain such imperfections. The concrete example that comes to mind is mass-produced goods. Build a mold, and use it to produce hundreds, thousands, millions of materials with the same qualities, the same advantages, the same intrinsic beauty. Imagine these qualities in, say, Picasso’s works. It’s safe to assume that they would not hold the same monetary value had he devised a way to mass-produce his work, but neither would they hold the same inherent value. So it is with us. Our differences, flaws included, give us value. My mother is the only “my mother.” There is no other, and I can’t imagine I would value her as highly if there twenty of her. My daughter is an endless labyrinth of ideas, emotions, flaws, and triumphs. Again, there is no other, and she is the most valuable thing this universe has ever produced (I may be a bit biased).

For once, I don’t want to dwell on this subject- I’m sure you get the idea. I’d like to invite you to write the rest of this piece. Examine yourself a bit, find those parts of you that are uniquely you, and identify the flaws. Embrace them. Use them to build the foundation of who you will become tomorrow, and build from it. No man or woman has ever existed in a state of harmony with his or her self without first embracing those scars, those imperfections. Find them in yourself, then move on. Perfection does not lie in perfection itself. Perfection exists only in ignorance of itself.

Advance, and never halt, for advancing is perfection.

~ Khalil Gibran

We have become such experts at being always in touch, informed, connected. Now we must relearn how to be silent, disconnected, alone.

Alain de Bottom (via mnmal)

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral.

by Aaron Freeman of NPR

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him/her that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let him/her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her/his eyes, that those photons created within her/him constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.

Amen.

(via coffeeleatherandbrick)

On Fallibility

As a child, I succumbed to the notion that the world around me was infallible. Everything was as it should be, and everyone knew what they were doing. Those who delivered the news, those who manufactured my home, those who ran my government were making products and ideas that need not be questioned. In seventh grade, that changed.

I was sitting in Mr. Miller’s algebra class. We began the day’s lesson with the proper placement of a decimal point. Standing in front of the blackboard, yet another pillar of exactitude, Mr. Miller told us that, at a convenience store just up the road, a sign in the window advertised coffee for .99 cents, and that every time he saw that sign, he wanted to walk into the store, pour himself a coffee, and hand the cashier a penny, telling him to “keep the change.”

The rest of the class chuckled. I did not. I wondered. The fallibility of the world had just been exposed to me, and I would never see it in the same light. If these people at the gas station didn’t understand a concept as simple as the placement of a decimal point- basic math to even the most average of seventh graders- what other mistakes were present in my world?

As it turns out, no greater gift could have been bestowed upon me than the knowledge that even adults made mistakes, that the world was not a perfect, utopian place. If the world was indeed flawed, then it cried out for corrections, for new ideas, for new mistakes. The world is an unfinished product, and it desperately needed new workers to improve upon it. I was handed the proverbial blank slate, equipped with a single piece of chalk, and I needed to get to work. All these years later, the exhilaration of that epiphany has not yet left me.

Fast forward to 2011. After a seven (eight?) year stage hiatus, I auditioned for a part in a local theater’s production of “Arsenic and Old Lace.”  Much to my surprise, the part was given to me. Not only had I been absent from the stage for so long, I also had no technical training, no real skill to speak of. So, during the first rehearsal, I pulled the director aside, asking him to be generous with his criticism, as I was eager to learn, to improve, to grow. After all, my stage background was less than impressive, to say the least, and his was to be envied. He was a professional actor, and one who ran his own theater, no less. His reaction to my request was surprising- in that he was surprised. Most people don’t ask for more criticism, he said. Few are thankful of the little that’s given to them.

I pondered this for awhile afterwards. How could it be that amateur actors were so hesitant to receive instruction from someone so obviously their theater superior? How can anyone grow, how can anyone improve, if they’re completely closed to those from whom they can learn? The more I thought about this phenomenon, the more I started to recognize it in my life outside of the theater. Friends who were involved in bad relationships refused to take advice from those in a happy marriage. Freshman colleagues refused to accept the help of senior staff members. I even witnessed a first-time guitar pupil getting annoyed at the suggestions of his tutor. It was as if everyone assumed that they knew best, in every possible field, even if that clearly wasn’t the case. 

He who moves not forward, goes backward

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The problem, it seems to me, lies in the tendency of individuals to wrap their thoughts and their actions up into their identity, twisting and mashing them together until one is indistinguishable from the other. If we are the result of the things we, think, say, and do, then it’s difficult not to take offense when we are told that we could be doing something better, we could be approaching something in a more thoughtful way, or we could be dealing with circumstances more advantageously. After all, when you attack my actions, you are consequently attacking me.

In order to grow, one must create a dichotomy of himself. One one side lies our thoughts, our actions, our words. On the other, our very selves. The Romanian philosopher and writer Mircea Eliade put it thusly:

As long as we are unconsciously and automatically identifying with the changing contents of our consciousness, we never suspect that our true nature remains hidden from us. Contemplative traditions affirm in one metaphor or another that our true identity lies not in the changing contents of consciousness but in a deeper layer of the self, mind or soul. To reach this deeper layer one must slowly disentangle oneself from automatic identification with the contents of consciousness.

In this case, of course, our consciousness is our thoughts, actions, and words. Once you’ve accomplished this disassociation, the recognition comes that you are an incomplete work of art: you yourself are a blank canvas, and you hold the paintbrush. Paint yourself as you will. There are no rules, no restrictions, and most importantly, no infallible master instructing you to paint yourself as so many have before you. Nor is your first attempt going to be your best, but that’s the beauty of the thing. You are not limited in the amount of times you choose to recreate yourself. You may choose to add a bit of color here and there, transforming yourself in minute ways until you’re satisfied with the resulting mosaic. You may choose to simply start with a blank canvas every week, every year.

To let you in on a little secret, I’m in the midst of this very process. A ten-year salesman, I now know that there is no life better-suited for me than one of writing and web design. It’s a difficult, arduous process to recreate oneself, and it need not be so drastic. But to be the master of your own Fate, to wield the brush that paints your life is an invaluable and liberating thing. To be handed the brush, though, you must open yourself to the wisdom of others. Admit to yourself that you do not always know best. Don’t just open yourself to criticism- actively seek it, because you are a work in progress, and to see yourself as infallible is to paint yourself in black and white. The brilliant colors needed to paint a masterpiece lie in the wisdom of the people you love, trust, and admire.