I have kind of been living inside of my own personal Hell recently. (Searching for a personal Jesus is harder than it looks, I might add.) In any case, as in any life, there are ups and there are downs and you have to take the good with the bad. I have come to realize this to be one of the most important lessons I've ever learned. Regardless, in a recent email, I was fortunate to receive encouraging words and this tidbit of Native American wisdom. I am sharing it here:
One evening a Cherokee elder told his grandson about the battle that goes on inside of people. He said, “My son, the battle is between the two ‘wolves’ that live inside us all. One is Unhappiness. It is fear, worry, anger, jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, resentment, and inferiority. The other is Happiness. It is joy, love, hope, serenity, kindness, generosity, truth, and compassion.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
I don't know much about wolves, but I hope that in my life, I've managed to choose the correct wolf.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Conflict: Reality versus Romantic Ideals.
The songs written about love that lasts forever, about lovers being wrenched apart, but vowing to remain true to each other, about a heart being devoted to one person for all of eternity, are the epitome of romantic. They are beautiful and terrible all at the same time. They speak of heartache and rescue in the same breath. These songs speak volumes to the apparent magnitude of humanity's capabilities to love and be loved. They are songs of faith -- a faith that all things will be restored to their proper order as long as love is true and prevails. I'd like to think that these songs speak the truth, that if I just continue to love, that everything will be restored to its proper order, and I will be rescued by my true love and we can love each other forever. Yet, with my somewhat jaded perceptions of the world, skewed as they may be, I just can't seem to wrap my head around the idea that love will prevail and I will be able to ride off into the sunset with my knight in shining armor. Isn't it human nature to doubt? And aren't we all inherently selfish creatures? And what if love becomes synonymous with hurt? When it hurts to love, is love even worth the effort? And how far will blind faith get me? But, non-God, I want all of it! I want the songs to be true. I want to love and be loved and to be rescued and to be held forever.
At this point, I am forced to battle myself. My understanding of reality is at odds with my want of these romantic ideals to win out. I cannot have my reality and these romantic ideas together because they conflict with each other. The reality that I've grown to accept is that humans are fickle, that they are emotional and easily confused. Most times, humans are conflicted, torn between an idea, an ideal, an emotion, a word, a phrase, an action. And love exists in so many forms, though it isn't a tangible thing. Moreover, in my understanding of reality, humans are capable of loving more than one person in more than one way. They are even capable of being in love with more than one person at any given time. And when that happens, a heart cannot be given fully to any one person, though pieces of that heart are devoted to each party involved. Yet, this reality conflicts with the romantic notions presented in these songs. And it is this conflict, which makes it so hard for me to buy into the idea that these songs have any validity at all. All of this just makes me want to scream:
Does love, as the songs describe, truly exist? And if it does, when is it my turn to find it? And will it hurt? And can it really last forever, when nothing else seems to? Or if such a thing doesn't exist, why does the entertainment industry perpetuate the idea that it does? Why give people false hope? Why? And when? When is it my turn to find all of this?
But wait, look at me! Again, true to my selfish nature, this has become all about me. But what if it isn't meant to be about me? What if I've got it all wrong? What if it isn't about being loved, as much as it's about loving another unconditionally? I am so confused.
The truth is that I do love, and I am in love with someone, and I am confused and horribly conflicted. And now I find myself further at odds with my perception of reality, and my irrational want of a non-existent idea. If only ideas weren't so appealing! If only reality wasn't so convincing! But really, was this ever about my head at all? I rather think it is more likely entirely a matter of my heart. All I know for sure is that I love, I am in love, and I am loved in return. Shouldn't all of that be enough?
Run by Snow Patrol
I'll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You've been the only thing that's right
In all I've done.
And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbye,
I nearly do.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
Slower, slower
We don't have time for that.
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads.
Have my heart, dear.
We're bound to be afraid,
Even if it's just for a few days,
Making up for all this mess.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
At this point, I am forced to battle myself. My understanding of reality is at odds with my want of these romantic ideals to win out. I cannot have my reality and these romantic ideas together because they conflict with each other. The reality that I've grown to accept is that humans are fickle, that they are emotional and easily confused. Most times, humans are conflicted, torn between an idea, an ideal, an emotion, a word, a phrase, an action. And love exists in so many forms, though it isn't a tangible thing. Moreover, in my understanding of reality, humans are capable of loving more than one person in more than one way. They are even capable of being in love with more than one person at any given time. And when that happens, a heart cannot be given fully to any one person, though pieces of that heart are devoted to each party involved. Yet, this reality conflicts with the romantic notions presented in these songs. And it is this conflict, which makes it so hard for me to buy into the idea that these songs have any validity at all. All of this just makes me want to scream:
Does love, as the songs describe, truly exist? And if it does, when is it my turn to find it? And will it hurt? And can it really last forever, when nothing else seems to? Or if such a thing doesn't exist, why does the entertainment industry perpetuate the idea that it does? Why give people false hope? Why? And when? When is it my turn to find all of this?
But wait, look at me! Again, true to my selfish nature, this has become all about me. But what if it isn't meant to be about me? What if I've got it all wrong? What if it isn't about being loved, as much as it's about loving another unconditionally? I am so confused.
The truth is that I do love, and I am in love with someone, and I am confused and horribly conflicted. And now I find myself further at odds with my perception of reality, and my irrational want of a non-existent idea. If only ideas weren't so appealing! If only reality wasn't so convincing! But really, was this ever about my head at all? I rather think it is more likely entirely a matter of my heart. All I know for sure is that I love, I am in love, and I am loved in return. Shouldn't all of that be enough?
Run by Snow Patrol
I'll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You've been the only thing that's right
In all I've done.
And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbye,
I nearly do.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
Slower, slower
We don't have time for that.
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads.
Have my heart, dear.
We're bound to be afraid,
Even if it's just for a few days,
Making up for all this mess.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Kismet Edict
And fate decreed
"'Twas meant to be!"
The words from lush lips fell,
Tumbling toward the dirt.
Spun sugar, the web ensnared us,
Captured all our lives and bound us.
"You are mine, my dear."
The song she sang,
Keening high, so sweetly,
Shattered eardrums,
Cochlea, anvil and hammer.
"I am no prisoner of yours!"
To move along so freely,
Liquid, flowing, and seething,
Like molten rock carving paths
Of destruction through healthy life.
"I'll create my own destiny."
But destiny had chosen prior:
"'Twas meant to be!"
Choices, free enterprises,
Human agency didn't matter
As the world turned 'round its axis,
Fixed to a shining star.
"You are mine, my dear."
"'Twas meant to be!"
The words from lush lips fell,
Tumbling toward the dirt.
Spun sugar, the web ensnared us,
Captured all our lives and bound us.
"You are mine, my dear."
The song she sang,
Keening high, so sweetly,
Shattered eardrums,
Cochlea, anvil and hammer.
"I am no prisoner of yours!"
To move along so freely,
Liquid, flowing, and seething,
Like molten rock carving paths
Of destruction through healthy life.
"I'll create my own destiny."
But destiny had chosen prior:
"'Twas meant to be!"
Choices, free enterprises,
Human agency didn't matter
As the world turned 'round its axis,
Fixed to a shining star.
"You are mine, my dear."
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Allowing my mind to wander
The empty road laid out before me, stretching the great expanse of my life, or at least stretching itself between Reading and Lancaster. Sparklehorse was playing through my car speakers and the window, halfway open, allowed the warm night air to rush into my car. I was traveling 65 mph down 222 North headed for home. Every few miles a green sign would pass, almost anonymously, almost, but not quite. These signs heralded exits to towns I knew by heart. And in between these green signs stood obnoxious orange signs announcing "Caution: Road Work Ahead. Left Lane Closed." And yet, I knew that these signs were lies. There was no road work happening on 222 at 2:27 AM. There never was. And really, why should there be? It's 2:27 in the morning, for Chrissakes!
The fog rolled in, the dotted white line blurred by my speed, the small white reflecters stuck in the road glowed faintly, all serving as lonely reminders of the quiet of the night. Every now and again, I'd pass a set of headlights traveling in the opposite direction, but mostly, I was alone in the night. And being alone was perfectly fine by me. Being alone on that longish drive home allowed me time to think.
65 mph down 222 North and I allowed my mind to wander:
So this is it? This is where I'm at? This is my life? Somehow, I thought there would be more than this. In fact, I'm certain that there must be more than this. I was sure that I'd find happiness sooner or later. Well, really, I was sure that I'd find happiness soon. And here I am, still searching. What am I doing? Or rather, what am I doing wrong?
Is bartending really so bad, though? I mean, it has it's moments where it's really not so bad. I'm getting paid to hang out and talk to people while they get drunk, which isn't a bad gig. How many other people can say that their job is so relaxed? And sometimes I think bartending is worth all of the frustration simply because of the ridiculous stories I've accumulated from my years as a bartender. I could write a book about the antics of the drunk people I've served. But then I stop to think about those very same drunk people and my headache resumes. GAWD, they are so terrible! But who am I to talk? As a bartender, I'm likely to be one of the worst bar patrons when I'm on the other side of the bar. I'm drinking to get drunk, to forget it all. I know the loopholes and will use every single one of them if it means that I can imbibe more alcohol. Sure, I'll tip well and I won't argue if I get cut off, but there is some truth to the statement that bartenders are the worst bar patrons.
Like I said, I allowed my mind to wander....
Then I was taking my exit and the scenery changed along the twisty road. A few more minutes to think was all that the rest of this ride afforded me.
People can be so terribly rude sometimes. And so often they are inconsiderate of the feelings of others. Are we really so selfish, all of us? Isn't there anything we can do? I don't want to be so selfish. I'd never call myself altruistic, but I don't want to be so selfish either. Perhaps I am a happy medium of sorts. Is there a happy medium?
My hand hurts. How the Hell did I cut it open and why is it still burning? Maybe I got lemon juice in it. That's possible.
Will I ever find my happiness? I mean, really? I feel like I'm getting older and that's because I am. I don't feel as young as I once was and it feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong. I don't want to do this wrong. I want to live life the right way, the way it's meant to be. I feel like an old soul and I intend to get it right this time so that I can finally rest. I mean, really, really rest. I want to be done. I want to return to starseed and starshine.
Maybe my happiness is waiting in another place. Maybe it means I'm supposed to leave here and find my destiny elsewhere. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something so much larger than what I'm doing here and I can't help but wonder if I'm limiting myself by staying in Reading. What else is out there? Who else is out there? Where would I go?
And then it was time to reign in my mind, to stop the wandering, because I had reached my final destination: home. And I'll admit, my home has never felt less like my home in my entire life. I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach as I realized that I'd arrived to this loathsome place yet again. And it was almost like the dread was an indicator that perhaps it's soon time for me to move on. As I closed my car door and headed for the front door of my house, I found myself pondering one simple sentence, provided to me on Twitter by @bobwoodcock: "Home is where the suitcase is." I think he was correct in saying so, in fact. Home is not where my heart is, for my heart travels with me. My nomadic, little heart has the wanderlust nearly constantly. I've never felt more free than when in transit, than when I move around, than when I am exhilerated by the adventure of a new and strange place, which allows me my anonymity. In fact, I think, perhaps, home is where the suitcase is.
The fog rolled in, the dotted white line blurred by my speed, the small white reflecters stuck in the road glowed faintly, all serving as lonely reminders of the quiet of the night. Every now and again, I'd pass a set of headlights traveling in the opposite direction, but mostly, I was alone in the night. And being alone was perfectly fine by me. Being alone on that longish drive home allowed me time to think.
65 mph down 222 North and I allowed my mind to wander:
So this is it? This is where I'm at? This is my life? Somehow, I thought there would be more than this. In fact, I'm certain that there must be more than this. I was sure that I'd find happiness sooner or later. Well, really, I was sure that I'd find happiness soon. And here I am, still searching. What am I doing? Or rather, what am I doing wrong?
Is bartending really so bad, though? I mean, it has it's moments where it's really not so bad. I'm getting paid to hang out and talk to people while they get drunk, which isn't a bad gig. How many other people can say that their job is so relaxed? And sometimes I think bartending is worth all of the frustration simply because of the ridiculous stories I've accumulated from my years as a bartender. I could write a book about the antics of the drunk people I've served. But then I stop to think about those very same drunk people and my headache resumes. GAWD, they are so terrible! But who am I to talk? As a bartender, I'm likely to be one of the worst bar patrons when I'm on the other side of the bar. I'm drinking to get drunk, to forget it all. I know the loopholes and will use every single one of them if it means that I can imbibe more alcohol. Sure, I'll tip well and I won't argue if I get cut off, but there is some truth to the statement that bartenders are the worst bar patrons.
Like I said, I allowed my mind to wander....
Then I was taking my exit and the scenery changed along the twisty road. A few more minutes to think was all that the rest of this ride afforded me.
People can be so terribly rude sometimes. And so often they are inconsiderate of the feelings of others. Are we really so selfish, all of us? Isn't there anything we can do? I don't want to be so selfish. I'd never call myself altruistic, but I don't want to be so selfish either. Perhaps I am a happy medium of sorts. Is there a happy medium?
My hand hurts. How the Hell did I cut it open and why is it still burning? Maybe I got lemon juice in it. That's possible.
Will I ever find my happiness? I mean, really? I feel like I'm getting older and that's because I am. I don't feel as young as I once was and it feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong. I don't want to do this wrong. I want to live life the right way, the way it's meant to be. I feel like an old soul and I intend to get it right this time so that I can finally rest. I mean, really, really rest. I want to be done. I want to return to starseed and starshine.
Maybe my happiness is waiting in another place. Maybe it means I'm supposed to leave here and find my destiny elsewhere. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something so much larger than what I'm doing here and I can't help but wonder if I'm limiting myself by staying in Reading. What else is out there? Who else is out there? Where would I go?
And then it was time to reign in my mind, to stop the wandering, because I had reached my final destination: home. And I'll admit, my home has never felt less like my home in my entire life. I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach as I realized that I'd arrived to this loathsome place yet again. And it was almost like the dread was an indicator that perhaps it's soon time for me to move on. As I closed my car door and headed for the front door of my house, I found myself pondering one simple sentence, provided to me on Twitter by @bobwoodcock: "Home is where the suitcase is." I think he was correct in saying so, in fact. Home is not where my heart is, for my heart travels with me. My nomadic, little heart has the wanderlust nearly constantly. I've never felt more free than when in transit, than when I move around, than when I am exhilerated by the adventure of a new and strange place, which allows me my anonymity. In fact, I think, perhaps, home is where the suitcase is.
Monday, March 16, 2009
El Torero, You Are So Cruel
Oh, the romanticism in bull fighting! It's a sport! It's entertainment! It's an artistic display of death! In most Spanish speaking countries, it is a great event drawing stadiums full of specators. And for many people world-wide, there is a great parallel drawn between Georges Bizet's Opera Carmen and bull fighting, for obvious reasons. Perhaps this helps to romanticize bull-fighting.
Maybe it's just me and maybe I'm being ethnocentric, but living in America, growing up as a semi-privileged middle class white kid, I can't quite grasp the concept of bull fighting as romantic. In fact, as far as I understand it, bull fighting is the rough and violent equivalent to playing with your food. It's a cruel sport. It's inhumane. Where is the entertainment in watching a poor animal, in this case, a bull, being tortured and injured until it is so weak and defenseless that it cowers before the Torero waiting for him to finally ease its pain with his shining sword? How is this considered romantic? How is this ethical?
I understand that these bulls are raised for the slaughter, but don't they deserve a humane death with as little pain and suffering as possible? Don't they deserve compassion? How can anyone justify putting a bull in a ring, teasing it, stabbing it multiple times in the neck, and making it suffer before finally killing it in the name of human entertainment? Maybe it's just because I don't understand the culture, but I can't wrap my head around bull fighting. Everything about bull fighting goes against the nature of the event. People cheer, throw roses at the Torero, clap and laugh. The Toreros are adorned with brightly colored outfits and red capes. The Picadors spear the bull in the neck with spears of vivid celebratory colors. If a person weren't paying attention to this event closely, it could be mistaken for a party, a celebration, a happy occassion. Rather, this event is the massacre of a bull.
Watching a bull bleeding, hurting, heaving its last breath as it falls to the ground is horrible. However, watching a crowd cheer and the Torero strut around celebrating his victory over the bull is worse.
I say in opposition to bull fighting, "El Torero, please stop! Grant the bulls a quick death with little suffering. El Torero, you are so cruel. Where is your compassion?"
Maybe it's just me and maybe I'm being ethnocentric, but living in America, growing up as a semi-privileged middle class white kid, I can't quite grasp the concept of bull fighting as romantic. In fact, as far as I understand it, bull fighting is the rough and violent equivalent to playing with your food. It's a cruel sport. It's inhumane. Where is the entertainment in watching a poor animal, in this case, a bull, being tortured and injured until it is so weak and defenseless that it cowers before the Torero waiting for him to finally ease its pain with his shining sword? How is this considered romantic? How is this ethical?
I understand that these bulls are raised for the slaughter, but don't they deserve a humane death with as little pain and suffering as possible? Don't they deserve compassion? How can anyone justify putting a bull in a ring, teasing it, stabbing it multiple times in the neck, and making it suffer before finally killing it in the name of human entertainment? Maybe it's just because I don't understand the culture, but I can't wrap my head around bull fighting. Everything about bull fighting goes against the nature of the event. People cheer, throw roses at the Torero, clap and laugh. The Toreros are adorned with brightly colored outfits and red capes. The Picadors spear the bull in the neck with spears of vivid celebratory colors. If a person weren't paying attention to this event closely, it could be mistaken for a party, a celebration, a happy occassion. Rather, this event is the massacre of a bull.
Watching a bull bleeding, hurting, heaving its last breath as it falls to the ground is horrible. However, watching a crowd cheer and the Torero strut around celebrating his victory over the bull is worse.
I say in opposition to bull fighting, "El Torero, please stop! Grant the bulls a quick death with little suffering. El Torero, you are so cruel. Where is your compassion?"
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