Ever since posting about my recurring nightmare, a certain part of my brain has been working overtime, trying to figure out some form of damage control. After all, you can't just end a post with "Yes, I'm a sick person" and then expect to have any followers the next day. So here's my explanation for why I find this nightmare so intriguing.
Let me preface this by saying that I am not a brave person. I've read plenty of books about plucky young heroines, captured by the Supreme Evil Bad Guy, "enhanced-ly interrogated" for information, who somehow gather the nerve to say bitingly witty and hilariously sarcastic one-liners in face of ongoing pain. "Hey, I think you missed a spot. There's some room here in my leg." Or the lovely young sidekick who tracks across the whole of the Universe with an epic Gentleman Adventurer, getting into scrapes and out of them just fine - and not always with the help of the main character. Or the girl who gets an adrenaline makeover - frumpy and nerdy before the fight, but in moments of crisis, she suddenly reveals unknown powers of awesome and, as it turns out, an unexpected hotness upgrade.
... Yeah, that's not me. I find the prospect of physical pain frightening - I would be talking before they knew the questions. While my persona may be of a self-controlled young lady, I know the truth. I am much more breakable than I would care to be. I am weak.
The reason that I find my nightmare fascinating is because it traps me between the person I am and the person I want to be.
Like most recurring dreams, it comes with multiple iterations. I've already told you about the most common- in the warehouse, by myself, trapped into a predetermined outcome that I am too frightened to fight. The scary aspects are easy enough to identify: being hunted, the intense pain that comes before the end, the alien nature of the Wolf Pack, and the most of all, the Mist. But "scary" doesn't make a dream a nightmare. A nightmare is truly terrifying - the intense, sociopathic, true-born son of fear.
Fear is watching "The Thing" late at night in the winter. Terror is waking up to find the Thing physically in your room. Fear is imagining what Gollum looks like. Terror is discovering Goll -- I mean my brother -- crawling over the foot of your bed muttering about twisting neckses. Fear can occasionally be entertaining; Terror is the clammy feeling of millions of wet spiders dancing on your spinal cord.
What is truly terrifying in my nightmare is how I effectively become a passive observer in my own dream.
One of the most pivotal moments of the dream are the events surrounding the finding of the Vivacious Friend. The one that the Fog ate. The one in physical suffering who is no longer a person. This friend is technically vital, but not truly alive. This moment is perhaps the most terrifying in the entire nightmare, because this is the point I become powerless in the dream. Effectively, I become two persons in the dream - what I'll refer to as Dream-Me and Lucid-Me. Dream-Me is the one moving, running, acting. Lucid-Me is the voice in Dream-Me's head screaming that this is the wrong move, the wrong way to run, the wrong action.
As I said, this moment is terrifying because as Dream-Me stumbles upon the Vivacious Friend, Lucid-Me knows exactly what will happen, and has already started screaming. Dream-Me, in an attempt to relieve the Vivacious Friend's suffering and stop the Friend's eyes from haunting Dream-Me's thoughts, attempts to kill the Vivacious Friend. Lucid-Me, the part that knows this is wrong, has absolutely no power to stop it. In my dream, I can only watch myself. I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream.
Occasionally, Dream-Me leaves the Vivacious Friend alone, but then the Wolf Pack catches up to my trail and finds the Friend. You know what happens next.
In a dream, time is more open to interpretation, though not negotiation. It loops back on itself or jumps erratically between events. Whichever poor decision I make with the Friend, dream-time replays it over and over again, subtly changing the scene everytime into worse and worse outcomes.
This iteration is horrifying because of my complete, utter helplessness. I have the will to save my loved ones, but ultimately, posses not the means to save even myself. I wake up feeling like Ralph at the end of the Lord of the Flies, only there is no navy captain to save us.
I mentioned there are other iterations. The other ones again twist and distort my empathy into a terrible weapon instead of what it is supposed to be. Sometimes, instead of entering the warehouse by myself, I have a companion. This companion is usually another distorted version of a dear friend. They invariably are both stronger and weaker than I am. For instance, they may be able to kill the Wolf Pack but cannot walk. Or are immune to the Mist but blind and deaf. And it is no longer my goal to save myself and as many of my friends as I can. When I have that other person with me, it is my duty to save everyone before even thinking of saving myself.
I am always presented with the perfect opportunity to buy the entire set of loved ones a few precious minutes by distracting the Wolf Pack, but I never do because I decide I can't bear to part from them sooner than absolutely necessary. The focus has changed, but I fail just as miserably as ever.
Ultimately, the Wolves at Night play off of my frustrations and fear of inadequacy. Not inadequacy at life, but at Living.
We are caught in the in-between
Of who we already are and who we're meant to be.
We're looking for love, but finding we're still in need.
It's only what we've lost will we be allowed to keep.
In my daily life, I am not the person I wish I were. I want to be so much more - more compassionate, more Christ-like, more understanding. I want to be the sort of person anyone could call at 3 am because they needed someone to listen. I want to be the person you can trust. I want to be safe, merciful, humble, willing, generous. But I am not that person, not when push comes to shove. I'm still selfish. I become angry. I am scared. I'm self-centered, not God-centered.
I've been having this nightmare ever since I was called on a long-ish term mission a year-and-a-half ago. It throws that incompleteness in my face. The two people I become in the dream are both perverted versions of myself. They are both afraid of the future, of the unknown, of making the wrong decision. They both try to do things on their own. They both try to save their friends, their loved ones but they fail.
I am looking to save love, but finding I'm still in need. I'm afraid that by literally dying to myself to save those I love, I will not be able to keep them with me.
There is a tension we have to live with - that we are not who we will be. The knowledge that I can never save myself, that I will never help others on my own steam, these are all elements within my nightmare. Above all else, I am a control freak, and it's not easy to turn over control to the One who has already saved me from the warehouse.
Because while I may like to think the warehouse exists only in my dreams, I live in it every moment of every day.
Whimsy
20 November 2012
17 November 2012
Wolves at Night
I was intending on writing a different post this morning. I really was. It was about turquoise and silver. It would have been fascinating. However, when I logged in to start writing, I stopped to catch up on my blog list. And then I read this little gem.
Argentum is talking about The Wolf, a nightmarish creature who has a propensity for following him on dark nights. It's deliciously creepy, more than a tad bit frightening, and definitely not something I want to think about while closing up the shop at nights. After reading this post, I was reminded of a recurring dream on my part. Because almost nothing I do is original, I figured I may as well abandon originality entirely and share a memory.
When I was little, I had exactly one nightmare. I would be flying through a gigantic, never-ending canyon in a little red hover pod, and the construction equipment mounted on the sides of the canyon would try to destroy my little ship. This dream has long since stopped terrifying me, and for years I had no recurring nightmares. The scary dreams I had would almost always turn into lucid dreams where I ended up choosing my own ending and parachuting off a cliff away from the danger or something similar.
That time of relatively non-scary dreams ended about a year-and-a-half ago, when I fell asleep one night and found myself in an infinite warehouse. It has no walls or freezer section, and has fallen into disrepair. The electricity doesn't work. It is icy cold. Rows and rows and rows of rusting metal struts rise into the gloom. Fog drifts across the floor, sluggish and spotty, and you know that if you walk into the fog, you may never return.
When I arrive, I am by myself in the middle of a break in the shelves. I have a flashlight whose batteries are almost dead. The fog begins glowing a vibrant, glorious orange. My flashlight dies, and in the gloom, I can see the fog crawling across the floor, and I know that I must not let it touch me. I turn to run, when I hear it. In the indeterminate distance, a wolf howls. As the echoes die away in the distance, I hear something worse: Footsteps.
At this point, I am running madly through the night, avoiding the light that gives away the fog's presence. And there - something moves behind a strut. I spin toward it. There is a knife in my hand, and I grip it tightly. My best friend steps out from behind me. She's a bloody mess. As I turn toward her, another movement flashes in the corner of my eye - another close friend. I am surrounded by the people I care most about, and none of them in good condition. No one talks. As I tense, ready to defend myself, a growl comes from off-screen. We turn as one, and a monstrous shape looms out of the approaching fog. You can't see much - just enough to know that whatever it is, it's not good.
We split and run, individually, through the warehouse. We begin disappearing. As we run into each other occasionally in the gloom, we try to figure out who's left. We can't. It's confusion. As the dream progresses, it becomes increasingly clear that if the wolves don't get you, the fog will. The wolves aren't too bad. They just destroy the body, leaving bloody paw prints and scraps of tissue behind. The fog, though. The fog destroys you. I find a friend who was caught by the fog. He is impaled on a strut - but still alive in the most basic sense. There is no expression - no pain, no intelligence, no response. Just mute suffering. I kill him because I cannot stand to see the vacant expression of a once-so-expressive friend.
I wander the warehouse for twelve hours, finding more and more bodies - or at least their blood. I find what is left of my best friend - the fog got to her and she's drawing pictures with someone's blood on the floor. I'm trying to help her in whatever way I can, when I hear the steps. Wolves encircle me, back-lit by the glowing fog. It's going to be a close one - which way will I go? As I reconcile myself to the inevitable, a raven flies overhead. I look up to follow the flight of the bird, and a flash of the most intense pain blinds me. Everything goes black. Maybe it was the wolves; maybe the fog - I wake up without knowing what got me in the end.
Ultimately, the warehouse scares me not because my outcome is predetermined, but because I am so frightened myself that I cannot help my friends. We are hunted through a limitless trap, and if I had just a little more presence of mind, I wouldn't be closing the eyelids on so many of my friends.
But at the same time, a part of me enjoys this dream. It's becoming more lucid - I have more control over my actions rather than passively watching. But I've never escaped the warehouse alive. I've never known why the raven shows up. I never know if I die bodily or spiritually. There's a mad adrenaline in the fear of that greatest unknown. Some of the best interactions I've ever had with people have been when they've entered the warehouse with me.
Yes, I'm a sick person.
Argentum is talking about The Wolf, a nightmarish creature who has a propensity for following him on dark nights. It's deliciously creepy, more than a tad bit frightening, and definitely not something I want to think about while closing up the shop at nights. After reading this post, I was reminded of a recurring dream on my part. Because almost nothing I do is original, I figured I may as well abandon originality entirely and share a memory.
When I was little, I had exactly one nightmare. I would be flying through a gigantic, never-ending canyon in a little red hover pod, and the construction equipment mounted on the sides of the canyon would try to destroy my little ship. This dream has long since stopped terrifying me, and for years I had no recurring nightmares. The scary dreams I had would almost always turn into lucid dreams where I ended up choosing my own ending and parachuting off a cliff away from the danger or something similar.
That time of relatively non-scary dreams ended about a year-and-a-half ago, when I fell asleep one night and found myself in an infinite warehouse. It has no walls or freezer section, and has fallen into disrepair. The electricity doesn't work. It is icy cold. Rows and rows and rows of rusting metal struts rise into the gloom. Fog drifts across the floor, sluggish and spotty, and you know that if you walk into the fog, you may never return.
When I arrive, I am by myself in the middle of a break in the shelves. I have a flashlight whose batteries are almost dead. The fog begins glowing a vibrant, glorious orange. My flashlight dies, and in the gloom, I can see the fog crawling across the floor, and I know that I must not let it touch me. I turn to run, when I hear it. In the indeterminate distance, a wolf howls. As the echoes die away in the distance, I hear something worse: Footsteps.
At this point, I am running madly through the night, avoiding the light that gives away the fog's presence. And there - something moves behind a strut. I spin toward it. There is a knife in my hand, and I grip it tightly. My best friend steps out from behind me. She's a bloody mess. As I turn toward her, another movement flashes in the corner of my eye - another close friend. I am surrounded by the people I care most about, and none of them in good condition. No one talks. As I tense, ready to defend myself, a growl comes from off-screen. We turn as one, and a monstrous shape looms out of the approaching fog. You can't see much - just enough to know that whatever it is, it's not good.
We split and run, individually, through the warehouse. We begin disappearing. As we run into each other occasionally in the gloom, we try to figure out who's left. We can't. It's confusion. As the dream progresses, it becomes increasingly clear that if the wolves don't get you, the fog will. The wolves aren't too bad. They just destroy the body, leaving bloody paw prints and scraps of tissue behind. The fog, though. The fog destroys you. I find a friend who was caught by the fog. He is impaled on a strut - but still alive in the most basic sense. There is no expression - no pain, no intelligence, no response. Just mute suffering. I kill him because I cannot stand to see the vacant expression of a once-so-expressive friend.
I wander the warehouse for twelve hours, finding more and more bodies - or at least their blood. I find what is left of my best friend - the fog got to her and she's drawing pictures with someone's blood on the floor. I'm trying to help her in whatever way I can, when I hear the steps. Wolves encircle me, back-lit by the glowing fog. It's going to be a close one - which way will I go? As I reconcile myself to the inevitable, a raven flies overhead. I look up to follow the flight of the bird, and a flash of the most intense pain blinds me. Everything goes black. Maybe it was the wolves; maybe the fog - I wake up without knowing what got me in the end.
Ultimately, the warehouse scares me not because my outcome is predetermined, but because I am so frightened myself that I cannot help my friends. We are hunted through a limitless trap, and if I had just a little more presence of mind, I wouldn't be closing the eyelids on so many of my friends.
But at the same time, a part of me enjoys this dream. It's becoming more lucid - I have more control over my actions rather than passively watching. But I've never escaped the warehouse alive. I've never known why the raven shows up. I never know if I die bodily or spiritually. There's a mad adrenaline in the fear of that greatest unknown. Some of the best interactions I've ever had with people have been when they've entered the warehouse with me.
Yes, I'm a sick person.
12 November 2012
A Crack in the Ice
There is something terribly evocative about 2 am on a cold, autumnal night. It's a time most sane folk would be abed, snuggled up in mounds of blankets to keep the chill out of their dreams. It's quiet, unnaturally so, and beautiful, oh so beautiful. The apple tree outside is just barely visible through the gloom. And here I sit, trying to explain an idea that's been going around for some time.
Have you ever had a thought that keeps haunting you for a significant amount of time, but when you try to remember what it is, you can't? That's what has happened with this one. I touched on it briefly in conversations with two different friends, and then promptly forgot it when I tried to write it down. But I think I may have grasped the elusive thought this morning.
I am an incredibly judgmental person. Now, before you go on to say that I'm not or some other such false nicety, you are entitled to know the truth. While what comes out of my mouth may not sound bad, I am entirely capable of scathing criticisms within the privacy of my own mind. This comes, in part, from the fact that I am incredibly opinionated - no more so than on the issues of the Arts and Christians witnessing in a secular culture. Those two issues will, without a doubt, cause some internal diatribe if I hear someone disagreeing with me.
But more on that later.
I also know what I like. I've been accused of collecting people the way some people collect stamps. Rather than having "true friends" I tend to surround myself with interesting people to observe and interact with. While this is a gross-overstatement, it is true to a smaller extent. I like my friends to be thought-provoking, and the best people to provoke thoughts are the ones who are not like me. This goes back to my addiction to conversations.
See, I like to hear other people talk, because I learn a lot about them. "Them" is interesting, so I want them to share their opinions and thoughts and dreams and, basically, their essence. Every good conversation divulges a little about the participants, and I love that slow unfolding of a personality. This desire for genuineness extends into my taste in blogs.
Now, before I go any further, I'd like to ask you to postpone your judgment on how much of a jerk I am until you've read the entire post. Your cooperation is appreciated.
There are a lot of blogs out there written by Christian young women that are essentially daily/biweekly/weekly/monthly devotional sites. The are polished and precise like the brain behind a gun should be, but I'm living in some kind of ecstasy and rational and often read very much like CS Lewis and there is nothing so theologically wrong with them that I have any reasonable reason for disliking them as much as I do. In fact, they are great displays of the strength of belief that the author(ess) possesses. More power to them for posting it online.
However, I cannot bring myself to read these sorts of blogs, because when I do, I feel as if I'm reading an exhibit intended to show off the authoress's spiritual prowess. Like the blog is more about giving a mighty fine showing of Christianity. The constant spiritual content overwhelms me and off-puts me, because rather than seeing a person writing their thoughts down in an almost permanent medium, I see someone showing off. I seldom post about my convictions, but when I do, it's always heart-felt. When I read these devotional blogs, part of my realizes that I would never be able to continuously upload that content without delving into fake reserves of spirituality and sanctification. Thus, I deem the posts fake and ostentatious and not something I'd like to read in the morning before heading to work.
But if I'm being perfectly honest with myself, I feel like a really bad person as well. If it's true that the mouth speaks out of the fullness of the heart, then what does that say about the contrast between a devotional blog author and me? What if these posts are genuinely meant and the devote, polite, well-spoken and reasonably well-educated author is actually like that in real life? Not only do I become the biggest jerk on the planet, but that would also imply that my daily testimony is insufficient and lacking. After all, I'm not a good enough Christian to be able to post multiple devotional blogs every month. I don't even manage one per month, as it is. So the fullness of the heart influences the mouth - Polished Anonymous Christian Bloggers: + 1,000,000,000,000,000, Me: -0.
Not just that, but operating on the assumption that these blogs are the genuine article, why do I not enjoy them? You'd think that any true Christian would want to read spiritually uplifting content in the morning before going to work at a job where the boss is constantly ragging on Christians. Why do I not enjoy writing these blog posts myself? Do I not have a firm grip on the joy of the Lord?
These thoughts have been swirling around and around in my head, and here's the best conclusion I've been able to come to.
The Bible talks about various spiritual gifts and callings. It's clear that some people are called to be pastors or apostles or evangelists, the list goes on. Even today, some Christians feel called to wave signs and march on the State Capital and hold banners above crowded freeways. That approach has always rubbed me the wrong way - While it is true that laws "legislate morality" by enforcing certain standards of conduct, it is impossible to write a law that dictates what morality people subscribe to in their hearts. It's safe to say that I do not feel that calling at all, and have not the inclination to wave banners for the cause.
Yet, when I see a man panhandling on the side of the road, or walk past a very clearly mentally-ill person in the city, my heart breaks. I want to cry, I want to act, I want to scream at all the fortunate people going on with their daily lives while ignoring the oppressed because ignobility makes us uncomfortable. And then I shove a couple of ones toward the pan handler and wish I could do something more. What's more, it really, really ticks me off that some Christians do not feel that level of commitment to the poor and the outcasts of the world. In all likelihood, this is the same frustration the politically active feel towards me when I decline to wave signs or join their march on Olympia.
As near as I can tell, God created every personality uniquely. Everyone's essence is separate, describing them and them alone. God wants to use us to work His will, but not to the destruction of the person He created us to be - if He wanted His will without that uniquely human element, He could avoid all the troubles of humanity and just use angels. They're more reliable. ;) So persons are unique, and God purposes our persons to specific tasks. To some, He gives the desire to encourage other Christians. To some, He gives the desire to reach out to non-Christians. Regardless, God uses imperfect, eminently personable people to work His will in different areas.
That style of blogging doesn't do anything for me -- it clearly works wonders for others. My care for today's "widows and orphans" doesn't reach everyone I meet -- but it doesn't have to. It only has to motivate the one meant to hear.
So should I guilt myself into enjoying devotional blogs? Probably not, but knowing me, I'll continue to do it anyway. Should I continue passing out harsh judgment on them? No, and I'll have to struggle to be more open and understanding.
Ultimately, it comes down to this analogy my dad is fond of using. Heaven, he says, is going to be like the greatest jazz jam session ever - full of improvisations and personal touches on the same celestial theme. The instruments will all reflect that Melody through their work, but each one will approach it from a different standpoint.
I'll take a longer-term comfort from that, but in the meantime, I'm going to need all the grace I can get. :)
Have you ever had a thought that keeps haunting you for a significant amount of time, but when you try to remember what it is, you can't? That's what has happened with this one. I touched on it briefly in conversations with two different friends, and then promptly forgot it when I tried to write it down. But I think I may have grasped the elusive thought this morning.
I am an incredibly judgmental person. Now, before you go on to say that I'm not or some other such false nicety, you are entitled to know the truth. While what comes out of my mouth may not sound bad, I am entirely capable of scathing criticisms within the privacy of my own mind. This comes, in part, from the fact that I am incredibly opinionated - no more so than on the issues of the Arts and Christians witnessing in a secular culture. Those two issues will, without a doubt, cause some internal diatribe if I hear someone disagreeing with me.
But more on that later.
I also know what I like. I've been accused of collecting people the way some people collect stamps. Rather than having "true friends" I tend to surround myself with interesting people to observe and interact with. While this is a gross-overstatement, it is true to a smaller extent. I like my friends to be thought-provoking, and the best people to provoke thoughts are the ones who are not like me. This goes back to my addiction to conversations.
See, I like to hear other people talk, because I learn a lot about them. "Them" is interesting, so I want them to share their opinions and thoughts and dreams and, basically, their essence. Every good conversation divulges a little about the participants, and I love that slow unfolding of a personality. This desire for genuineness extends into my taste in blogs.
Now, before I go any further, I'd like to ask you to postpone your judgment on how much of a jerk I am until you've read the entire post. Your cooperation is appreciated.
There are a lot of blogs out there written by Christian young women that are essentially daily/biweekly/weekly/monthly devotional sites. The are polished and precise like the brain behind a gun should be, but I'm living in some kind of ecstasy and rational and often read very much like CS Lewis and there is nothing so theologically wrong with them that I have any reasonable reason for disliking them as much as I do. In fact, they are great displays of the strength of belief that the author(ess) possesses. More power to them for posting it online.
However, I cannot bring myself to read these sorts of blogs, because when I do, I feel as if I'm reading an exhibit intended to show off the authoress's spiritual prowess. Like the blog is more about giving a mighty fine showing of Christianity. The constant spiritual content overwhelms me and off-puts me, because rather than seeing a person writing their thoughts down in an almost permanent medium, I see someone showing off. I seldom post about my convictions, but when I do, it's always heart-felt. When I read these devotional blogs, part of my realizes that I would never be able to continuously upload that content without delving into fake reserves of spirituality and sanctification. Thus, I deem the posts fake and ostentatious and not something I'd like to read in the morning before heading to work.
But if I'm being perfectly honest with myself, I feel like a really bad person as well. If it's true that the mouth speaks out of the fullness of the heart, then what does that say about the contrast between a devotional blog author and me? What if these posts are genuinely meant and the devote, polite, well-spoken and reasonably well-educated author is actually like that in real life? Not only do I become the biggest jerk on the planet, but that would also imply that my daily testimony is insufficient and lacking. After all, I'm not a good enough Christian to be able to post multiple devotional blogs every month. I don't even manage one per month, as it is. So the fullness of the heart influences the mouth - Polished Anonymous Christian Bloggers: + 1,000,000,000,000,000, Me: -0.
Not just that, but operating on the assumption that these blogs are the genuine article, why do I not enjoy them? You'd think that any true Christian would want to read spiritually uplifting content in the morning before going to work at a job where the boss is constantly ragging on Christians. Why do I not enjoy writing these blog posts myself? Do I not have a firm grip on the joy of the Lord?
These thoughts have been swirling around and around in my head, and here's the best conclusion I've been able to come to.
The Bible talks about various spiritual gifts and callings. It's clear that some people are called to be pastors or apostles or evangelists, the list goes on. Even today, some Christians feel called to wave signs and march on the State Capital and hold banners above crowded freeways. That approach has always rubbed me the wrong way - While it is true that laws "legislate morality" by enforcing certain standards of conduct, it is impossible to write a law that dictates what morality people subscribe to in their hearts. It's safe to say that I do not feel that calling at all, and have not the inclination to wave banners for the cause.
Yet, when I see a man panhandling on the side of the road, or walk past a very clearly mentally-ill person in the city, my heart breaks. I want to cry, I want to act, I want to scream at all the fortunate people going on with their daily lives while ignoring the oppressed because ignobility makes us uncomfortable. And then I shove a couple of ones toward the pan handler and wish I could do something more. What's more, it really, really ticks me off that some Christians do not feel that level of commitment to the poor and the outcasts of the world. In all likelihood, this is the same frustration the politically active feel towards me when I decline to wave signs or join their march on Olympia.
As near as I can tell, God created every personality uniquely. Everyone's essence is separate, describing them and them alone. God wants to use us to work His will, but not to the destruction of the person He created us to be - if He wanted His will without that uniquely human element, He could avoid all the troubles of humanity and just use angels. They're more reliable. ;) So persons are unique, and God purposes our persons to specific tasks. To some, He gives the desire to encourage other Christians. To some, He gives the desire to reach out to non-Christians. Regardless, God uses imperfect, eminently personable people to work His will in different areas.
That style of blogging doesn't do anything for me -- it clearly works wonders for others. My care for today's "widows and orphans" doesn't reach everyone I meet -- but it doesn't have to. It only has to motivate the one meant to hear.
So should I guilt myself into enjoying devotional blogs? Probably not, but knowing me, I'll continue to do it anyway. Should I continue passing out harsh judgment on them? No, and I'll have to struggle to be more open and understanding.
Ultimately, it comes down to this analogy my dad is fond of using. Heaven, he says, is going to be like the greatest jazz jam session ever - full of improvisations and personal touches on the same celestial theme. The instruments will all reflect that Melody through their work, but each one will approach it from a different standpoint.
I'll take a longer-term comfort from that, but in the meantime, I'm going to need all the grace I can get. :)
03 November 2012
A Significant Gesture
I have just realized this post directly relates to the importance of Rumpelstiltskin. Hah. Funny how my mind works.
Gesture: Noun; A movement of part of the body, esp. a hand or the head, to express an idea or meaning: "so much is conveyed by gesture."
In the field of music, the smallest unit of musical significance is the gesture. Larger than a single note, smaller than a phrase, the gesture is a series of moving tones which impact the melody and mood of a piece. Granted, this is my poor, short - hand attempt to describe a much more complicated piece of theory, but I imagine most of my dear readers have neither the time nor inclination to learn all the nuances of gestures in music. For instance, the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony can be considered as a gesture forming the first part of his opening phrase.
In communication, a gesture is a physical movement that conveys significance to the accompanying words. "May the LORD do so to me," means little without the gesture illustrating what "doing so " looks like. Above all, a gesture is subtle. It is not the text, it can be context. Or subtext. Or the just an illustration. It is meaningful, but only when combined to form a phrase.
When I perform a piece of music, my attention is split between shaping phrases and creating meaningful gestures. However, if I do my job correctly, the listeners do not hear short little snippets of melody strung together like a four - year- old's bead necklace: rather, they hear long, fluid phrases flowing together to form a unified whole.
To a certain degree, gestures meaningful only when hidden. Like a secret, the gesture put on display loses it's original meaning and shifts the power more into the audience's hands -is the subtlety worth our attention? Should it live on as a meme or GIF or die on the authority of public opinion? It is worthwhile to note here that a gesture may be intended for a receiver without becoming a display - when I ask my father to help me treat my mother, I do it for her sake (a gesture), rather than for his (a display).
Because the meaning of a gesture is implicit rather than explicit, I hesitate to use this next example to illustrate. The gesture in question occurred on my birthday, and I could have quite easily crowed about it on Facebook that night and turned it into a big display. I am worried that by sharing the event I will lose its personal meaning and turn it into just another Big Fish story. But here goes.
My family went hiking in the Cascade Mountains for my birthday. The Cascades are, in part, named for their abundance of streams and creeks flowing off the snow line. So there we are, hiking alongside of a creek bed. Thursday and I hiked down off the trail (following Leave No Trace principles, yes) and into the rocky creek. Walking upstream, we had fun jumping on and off of rocks and over fallen trees, just for the heck of it. However, we soon reached a point where the trail was on top of a cliff, and the stream on the bottom. Not wanting to backtrack, I found a fallen tree that ran from the bottom of the stream to the top of the cliff, and exited my 18th year by crawling on a tree of questionable structural integrity about twenty feet above a rocky, stream filled ravine.
Yes, I got a crazy adrenaline rush. Yes, some other hikers stopped and took pictures. Someone filmed it. But I wasn't doing it to give my mom a heart attack or get online. The gesture was for my benefit alone. I was facing my fear of heights and fear if the mundane.
In short, a gesture's significance comes more from intentions. It is, like a secret, internally defined and externally descriptive of the person making the gesture. Eavesdropping or accidentally observing one can tell you a lot about a person - which is why I enjoy people watching. Ultimately, it is the person one is when alone that is the real "person." It is the things one does with private meaning that has the most significance, and it is the actions one takes for the sake of one other that truly are a window into the soul.
Gesture: Noun; A movement of part of the body, esp. a hand or the head, to express an idea or meaning: "so much is conveyed by gesture."
In the field of music, the smallest unit of musical significance is the gesture. Larger than a single note, smaller than a phrase, the gesture is a series of moving tones which impact the melody and mood of a piece. Granted, this is my poor, short - hand attempt to describe a much more complicated piece of theory, but I imagine most of my dear readers have neither the time nor inclination to learn all the nuances of gestures in music. For instance, the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony can be considered as a gesture forming the first part of his opening phrase.
In communication, a gesture is a physical movement that conveys significance to the accompanying words. "May the LORD do so to me," means little without the gesture illustrating what "doing so " looks like. Above all, a gesture is subtle. It is not the text, it can be context. Or subtext. Or the just an illustration. It is meaningful, but only when combined to form a phrase.
When I perform a piece of music, my attention is split between shaping phrases and creating meaningful gestures. However, if I do my job correctly, the listeners do not hear short little snippets of melody strung together like a four - year- old's bead necklace: rather, they hear long, fluid phrases flowing together to form a unified whole.
To a certain degree, gestures meaningful only when hidden. Like a secret, the gesture put on display loses it's original meaning and shifts the power more into the audience's hands -is the subtlety worth our attention? Should it live on as a meme or GIF or die on the authority of public opinion? It is worthwhile to note here that a gesture may be intended for a receiver without becoming a display - when I ask my father to help me treat my mother, I do it for her sake (a gesture), rather than for his (a display).
Because the meaning of a gesture is implicit rather than explicit, I hesitate to use this next example to illustrate. The gesture in question occurred on my birthday, and I could have quite easily crowed about it on Facebook that night and turned it into a big display. I am worried that by sharing the event I will lose its personal meaning and turn it into just another Big Fish story. But here goes.
My family went hiking in the Cascade Mountains for my birthday. The Cascades are, in part, named for their abundance of streams and creeks flowing off the snow line. So there we are, hiking alongside of a creek bed. Thursday and I hiked down off the trail (following Leave No Trace principles, yes) and into the rocky creek. Walking upstream, we had fun jumping on and off of rocks and over fallen trees, just for the heck of it. However, we soon reached a point where the trail was on top of a cliff, and the stream on the bottom. Not wanting to backtrack, I found a fallen tree that ran from the bottom of the stream to the top of the cliff, and exited my 18th year by crawling on a tree of questionable structural integrity about twenty feet above a rocky, stream filled ravine.
Yes, I got a crazy adrenaline rush. Yes, some other hikers stopped and took pictures. Someone filmed it. But I wasn't doing it to give my mom a heart attack or get online. The gesture was for my benefit alone. I was facing my fear of heights and fear if the mundane.
In short, a gesture's significance comes more from intentions. It is, like a secret, internally defined and externally descriptive of the person making the gesture. Eavesdropping or accidentally observing one can tell you a lot about a person - which is why I enjoy people watching. Ultimately, it is the person one is when alone that is the real "person." It is the things one does with private meaning that has the most significance, and it is the actions one takes for the sake of one other that truly are a window into the soul.
01 November 2012
Rumpeltstiltskin, I Name Thee!
Become more than a man and devote yourself to an ideal...
Do you remember the story of Rumpelstiltskin from when you were a kiddo? It goes something like this.
A jerk of a father needs to ask his king for a favor. In hopes of making him more favorably inclined to his request, the dad tells the king that his daughter can spin straw into gold. The king is suitably impressed and orders the girl brought to him. Turns out, the king's a loser too: He locks the girl in a room filled with hay and tells her to work her magic before morning on pain of death. The girl, impressed both by that knowledge and the fact that she has no freaking idea how to spin gold, starts crying.
Enter Magic Man, stage left. He agrees to spin the gold in exchange for a piece of her jewelry. The next morning, the king decides to do it again, this time with a bigger room. Free gold, right? The daughter cries some more, the Magic Man reappears, and spins again for her last piece of jewelry. The king is elated, so this time he locks her in an even bigger room, and swears to marry her. If I were her, the promise of marrying that jerk would quite possibly be more terrifying than death. The girl cries again, but when the Magic Man shows up, she has nothing left to give him. They strike a bargain - the room of gold for her firstborn, and she's all set to marry the king. When the girl gives birth, the wee lil Magic Man appears and demands his payment in full. The daughter only escapes by guessing his name. THE END.
There are countless folk tales concerning the magic of names. By knowing someone's true name, they testify, you have intrinsic power over that person.
The funny thing about names is they act as both a way of identifying and describing someone or something - a sort of label. In a way, labels are humanity's attempt to describe something's essence. A "chair" is something we sit upon above the ground. A "squirrel" is a type of animal known for its inclination to mischief. A label brings to mind a certain archetype - however, the specifics of that "essence" differ from person to person. Case in point: The difference between my mother and my conception of a "hipster." Here's a hint - my mother thinks it's an affectionate endearment.
But let's get back to names and their function as a label. Let's talk about my imaginary friends. I have four of them, so let's talk about my imaginary friend Joe. Well, as it turns out, I have two imaginary friends named Joe. I'm specifically referring to Joe Black. He's pretty cool - I like hanging out with him as opposed to Joe White, who's a self-righteous little fella. Those two little words - "Joe Black" - bring to mind a very specific personality I have made up for a fictional character. They also make me crave peanut butter. But that's beside the point. The name of my imaginary friend identifies him among my many imaginary friend, and to a certain extent, describes him. He is NOT Joe White, and has [x], [y], and [z] characteristics. Get it? A label is an identifer (Which Joe are you talking about?) and a description (What sort of person is he?). You've heard of people saying "I'm just not a Bill," right? That's what I'm talking about.
Think about going into the canned soup area of a grocery store. You've got Campbell's, Annie's, Souper Meals ... all sorts of different brands. But then you also have types of soup: Chicken Noodle, Stroganoff, Minestrone, Tomato, Spaghetti-Os. If you send a friend out to buy you some "good soup," who knows what they may bring back? But if you tell them you want "Campbell's Chicken Noodle" they can identify the soup and have a general idea of what's on the inside.
Now, I really like my name. I think it suits me admirably. In fact, I've had friends make comments testifying to the fact that I just "did a really Whimsy thing." That's cool by me. It means I'm being myself, that my label, or my name, has become inseparable from my personality, who I am as an individual.
But have you ever noticed how humans have this tendency to try and "find themselves?" I would relabel (ha!) this as humans trying to be the essence of themself - what makes Whimsy tick? What songs does she like? What food does she enjoy? Who are her friends and why?
Here's the rub. The most useless piece of advice ever given to mankind is To Be Yourself. A person not given to introspection will ignore it and continue just as ever. An introspective person will devote considerable time to angsting over who they are as opposed to someone else, and end up never truly finding themselves from too much navel-gazing. The process of discovering who Lady Whimsy is will take my lifetime, because who knows what person God intends me to be? I certainly don't.
So back to labels and names and essences. We've got these public names that people use on a regular basis. Cassandra, Matthew, Hannah, Grace. We know the people to whom those names refer. We use those designations to address them and refer to them. They're public knowledge - how you and I are known in our communities.
However, I would argue that everyone has a secret, "true" name. Not some mystical name given to you in a dream by a Technicolor rabbit the night before you turn 13, but labels that are self-applied and self-descriptive. Not how I describe myself to other people - "musician," "hopeless romantic," "dark romantic," "day dreamer" - but how I describe myself to myself.
And what other way to define ourselves than by the secrets we keep? Secrets are the "true names" of people. They are hidden, mystical, tied up in the very essence of the holder (why else keep it a secret?) which no one knows. The hidden actions, the clandestine thoughts, the beliefs and ideas and ideals so closely tied to the person's identity and security that they are shared with no one. Secrets are pieces of information that clarify and describe the person keeping them.
"Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
Just like Rumpelstiltskin, releasing the knowledge of one's secret identity gives them the intrinsic power of the name. Once shared, the information can grow, mutate, or be used against you. Like it or not, the relief of sharing a secret creates a new, funky dynamic in any friendship or relationship. Once shared, the true name can never really be forgotten. It's a determined little thing, clinging desperately even when it's usefulness has passed. And of course, the awkward, messy dynamic it brings is both wonderful and despicable. It all depends on your standpoint.
Bottom line is, we all have a choice. We can "become an ideal" and save our real names from the control of another, or diminish and go into the West with what is left of our folk and share that privilege with others. By sharing, you give up something precious for the sake of something more desirable. By saving, you destine yourself for a lifetime of secret keeping. Personally, I choose to travel the path with my real name easily accessible [ Note: not readily accessible or displayed. Simply easy to access when I choose]. Why? Because I value that gritty, honest, this-is-who-I-am truth and openness with my friends.
But it is a choice. An adventure. A daring step into the open, giving power over to someone who may not have your best interests at heart.
Rumpelstiltskins of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your Name!
And if that's not an exhilarating thought, I don't know what is.
W
Do you remember the story of Rumpelstiltskin from when you were a kiddo? It goes something like this.
A jerk of a father needs to ask his king for a favor. In hopes of making him more favorably inclined to his request, the dad tells the king that his daughter can spin straw into gold. The king is suitably impressed and orders the girl brought to him. Turns out, the king's a loser too: He locks the girl in a room filled with hay and tells her to work her magic before morning on pain of death. The girl, impressed both by that knowledge and the fact that she has no freaking idea how to spin gold, starts crying.
Enter Magic Man, stage left. He agrees to spin the gold in exchange for a piece of her jewelry. The next morning, the king decides to do it again, this time with a bigger room. Free gold, right? The daughter cries some more, the Magic Man reappears, and spins again for her last piece of jewelry. The king is elated, so this time he locks her in an even bigger room, and swears to marry her. If I were her, the promise of marrying that jerk would quite possibly be more terrifying than death. The girl cries again, but when the Magic Man shows up, she has nothing left to give him. They strike a bargain - the room of gold for her firstborn, and she's all set to marry the king. When the girl gives birth, the wee lil Magic Man appears and demands his payment in full. The daughter only escapes by guessing his name. THE END.
There are countless folk tales concerning the magic of names. By knowing someone's true name, they testify, you have intrinsic power over that person.
The funny thing about names is they act as both a way of identifying and describing someone or something - a sort of label. In a way, labels are humanity's attempt to describe something's essence. A "chair" is something we sit upon above the ground. A "squirrel" is a type of animal known for its inclination to mischief. A label brings to mind a certain archetype - however, the specifics of that "essence" differ from person to person. Case in point: The difference between my mother and my conception of a "hipster." Here's a hint - my mother thinks it's an affectionate endearment.
But let's get back to names and their function as a label. Let's talk about my imaginary friends. I have four of them, so let's talk about my imaginary friend Joe. Well, as it turns out, I have two imaginary friends named Joe. I'm specifically referring to Joe Black. He's pretty cool - I like hanging out with him as opposed to Joe White, who's a self-righteous little fella. Those two little words - "Joe Black" - bring to mind a very specific personality I have made up for a fictional character. They also make me crave peanut butter. But that's beside the point. The name of my imaginary friend identifies him among my many imaginary friend, and to a certain extent, describes him. He is NOT Joe White, and has [x], [y], and [z] characteristics. Get it? A label is an identifer (Which Joe are you talking about?) and a description (What sort of person is he?). You've heard of people saying "I'm just not a Bill," right? That's what I'm talking about.
Think about going into the canned soup area of a grocery store. You've got Campbell's, Annie's, Souper Meals ... all sorts of different brands. But then you also have types of soup: Chicken Noodle, Stroganoff, Minestrone, Tomato, Spaghetti-Os. If you send a friend out to buy you some "good soup," who knows what they may bring back? But if you tell them you want "Campbell's Chicken Noodle" they can identify the soup and have a general idea of what's on the inside.
Now, I really like my name. I think it suits me admirably. In fact, I've had friends make comments testifying to the fact that I just "did a really Whimsy thing." That's cool by me. It means I'm being myself, that my label, or my name, has become inseparable from my personality, who I am as an individual.
But have you ever noticed how humans have this tendency to try and "find themselves?" I would relabel (ha!) this as humans trying to be the essence of themself - what makes Whimsy tick? What songs does she like? What food does she enjoy? Who are her friends and why?
Here's the rub. The most useless piece of advice ever given to mankind is To Be Yourself. A person not given to introspection will ignore it and continue just as ever. An introspective person will devote considerable time to angsting over who they are as opposed to someone else, and end up never truly finding themselves from too much navel-gazing. The process of discovering who Lady Whimsy is will take my lifetime, because who knows what person God intends me to be? I certainly don't.
So back to labels and names and essences. We've got these public names that people use on a regular basis. Cassandra, Matthew, Hannah, Grace. We know the people to whom those names refer. We use those designations to address them and refer to them. They're public knowledge - how you and I are known in our communities.
However, I would argue that everyone has a secret, "true" name. Not some mystical name given to you in a dream by a Technicolor rabbit the night before you turn 13, but labels that are self-applied and self-descriptive. Not how I describe myself to other people - "musician," "hopeless romantic," "dark romantic," "day dreamer" - but how I describe myself to myself.
And what other way to define ourselves than by the secrets we keep? Secrets are the "true names" of people. They are hidden, mystical, tied up in the very essence of the holder (why else keep it a secret?) which no one knows. The hidden actions, the clandestine thoughts, the beliefs and ideas and ideals so closely tied to the person's identity and security that they are shared with no one. Secrets are pieces of information that clarify and describe the person keeping them.
"Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
Just like Rumpelstiltskin, releasing the knowledge of one's secret identity gives them the intrinsic power of the name. Once shared, the information can grow, mutate, or be used against you. Like it or not, the relief of sharing a secret creates a new, funky dynamic in any friendship or relationship. Once shared, the true name can never really be forgotten. It's a determined little thing, clinging desperately even when it's usefulness has passed. And of course, the awkward, messy dynamic it brings is both wonderful and despicable. It all depends on your standpoint.
Bottom line is, we all have a choice. We can "become an ideal" and save our real names from the control of another, or diminish and go into the West with what is left of our folk and share that privilege with others. By sharing, you give up something precious for the sake of something more desirable. By saving, you destine yourself for a lifetime of secret keeping. Personally, I choose to travel the path with my real name easily accessible [ Note: not readily accessible or displayed. Simply easy to access when I choose]. Why? Because I value that gritty, honest, this-is-who-I-am truth and openness with my friends.
But it is a choice. An adventure. A daring step into the open, giving power over to someone who may not have your best interests at heart.
Rumpelstiltskins of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your Name!
And if that's not an exhilarating thought, I don't know what is.
W
31 October 2012
The Song of the Happy Shepherd
This poem has been haunting my thoughts recently. Read it aloud - it deserves it.
THE SONG OF THE HAPPY SHEPHERD
by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? -- By the Rood,
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass--
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs--the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be,
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
--
~ It is better to suffer an injustice than to do injustice ~
www.problematicraining.blogspot.com
THE SONG OF THE HAPPY SHEPHERD
by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? -- By the Rood,
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass--
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs--the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be,
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
--
~ It is better to suffer an injustice than to do injustice ~
www.problematicraining.blogspot.com
29 October 2012
Mercurial Theatre on the Air
The shop I work at in the evening uses a wireless speaker network to broadcast music throughout the store. At night, I turn out the lights, turn off the music, lock myself in, and proceed to return clothes to their rightful area. The clothing racks and strollers loom out of the gloom like primordial terro- I mean, tripping hazards. Also, we have mannequins and a long, narrow hallway through which I must pass.
Only problem: The speakers transmit random bursts of static when they don't play music, I'm afraid of the dark, and there's a windstorm currently ravaging the area.
Have you ever heard of SlenderMan? I'm pretty sure he shops at my store.
Only problem: The speakers transmit random bursts of static when they don't play music, I'm afraid of the dark, and there's a windstorm currently ravaging the area.
Have you ever heard of SlenderMan? I'm pretty sure he shops at my store.
22 October 2012
Community ; or Why Whimsy's an Idiot; Incidentally, Words are Important but Deceptive
I should take the time to point out that I'm not writing this post for sympathy points or any other fishing-for-compliments reason. I feel like I owe a few of my closest friends an explanation, and that it would be helpful to give that explanation to everyone while I'm at it. Word economy, don't you know?
In this particular season of my life, I am frequently reminded of just why God said that it's not good for man to be alone. I'm going to take some literary license and assume He was also thinking that women have the same need for companionship. I hope you don't find that too much of a stretch.
Feeling alright? Good.
So the reason I say that I am reminded of the very first "Not Good" in the Bible is because, to speak frankly, I am feeling remarkably lonely.
Lonely?! Whimsy? How could Whimsy possibly be lonely?! She's working two incredible jobs for fifty hours a week, all hours of which she is directly interacting with any and all customers which appear in the store? Impossible!
But you see, my friends, that is exactly the point. Just as a thin person can be in love with cheesecake; just as someone can wake up on a rainy Monday morning with a grin on their face and a giggle hiding in the corner of their mouth; just as you can remember someone you've never met; so, too, can I be lonely while working with a crowd of people.
You sort of get the idea that I love being a walking contradiction, don't you? :D
Community. It all comes down to community. The messy, awkward, groovy, and oft-maligned group of humanity with which we all dwell. The people who know us too well, or not well enough. The ones who share gossip through prayer requests, but genuinely mean all their prayers. The people who aggravate, anticipate, and intimidate but who all, somehow, manage to form that close bond inside the community. This is not your town. It is not your school. It is not found at your job or hiding under your bed, waiting to grab your ankles as you take that running leap guaranteed to save you from the alligators.
Instead, it is found in the people who have the power to change your life and your outlook whether you like it or not. I miss my community of awesome friends and awkward friends. I miss the feeling if companionship in the midst of silence. One of my favorite memories from this summer was this one moment in August, walking home from an outing to the Asian mall with a couple of friends. This moment is cemented in my mind, because the warm gold light of a late summer afternoon was sluggishly casting shadows through the trees lining the road on which we walked in silence. Conversation had lapsed for a moment, and we three were left to the meander in our own thoughts. The warm air enveloped us in a sort if timeless state: Why worry about speaking when, for that brief, glowing moment, you could savor the simple feeling of belonging somewhere. Shoes scraped softly on the ground, and we ambled on.
Or that other time, arriving late at the Welcome Home party of a few travelers. I sat awkwardly in the dim glow of the once-giant bonfire, listening to the people who make up my community joking and gaming in the gloom. As the fire subsided into ashes and I realized I had nothing intelligent or amusing to add to the gathering, a feeling of contentment spread across me. Sometimes it's good not to be the largest personality in a group. This is a good realization to come to, what with the number of larger-than-life people I associate with.
Now let's get to why I'm a bloody idiot. Admit it - the reason you've put up with this ramble so far is because of a morbid fascination with my countless means of self-deprecation. Mhmm. I know you too well.
Here goes.
In my circle, there is a definite preoccupation with the art and science of falling in love. According to the Bible, this is the right and good order of things, so please realize that I am not dismissing it. However, this preoccupation makes life a little difficult for the resident Man-Intimidator. Oh, you guessed that was me? How clever of you. Now, I have mixed feelings about my reputation. When most of the male friends in your life make a constant effort to remind you of - that one time you punched me when I tried to hug you- or - Geez, I was so frightened of you for the first few years I knew you - or - I would never upset you, you'd kill me - it's hard not to feel a little ... defective.
Incidentally, in my defense, physical touch is how I express affection for people, and the punch in question happened when a young man I had known a total of three months suddenly rushed in for a bear hug when I least expected it. It was sort of like having your bearded Aunt Matilda lean in for a kiss when you're three: Extremely traumatic and will definitely provoking a knee-jerk reaction.
But back to the mixed feelings. It's not that I'm pining for a delicious love affair - although I wouldn't say no to a likely prospect - it's that once in a while, it would be nice to feel ... lovable. To clarify: getting into a relationship really isn't a priority, and isn't even in the play book - but I like to feel as if it were an actual possibility. Yes, I do have ego issues.
I get this feeling of of likeability most often when I have a really, really good conversation. You know the type I'm talking about. The ones you can't stop thinking about, or that contain a joke that keeps making you smile. The sort of conversation that can give you the warm fuzzies for days. It's safe to say that, when around members of my community, my ears are open for one of these gems. Once a conversation shows its potential, I try to extend it for as long as possible - again, not just because I like my brain to be stimulated, but because it makes me feel sophisticated and suave and polished and not like the supremely awkward 19-year-old I am.
Unfortunately, in pursuit of these good conversations, I've made it a habit of coming across the wrong way to members of the opposite sex. Which, in turn, tends to contribute to my reputation of being "The Scary Lady June." Whee. The downward spiral continues. See, in my enthusiasm for great conversation and thoughtful analysis, I usually forget that my peers operate under a different paradigm, one where social flirting is actually romantic flirting; one where friendly interest is never just friendly interest; one where words no longer mean what the user intends.
The thing about words is that they are intended to mean something specific. When we twist our language to the point where subtext is more important than context, bad things happen. Because the subtext that one person perceives is not necessarily the subtext presented by the author. Subtext is important, but doubly so is the context the actual text is presented in. The supertext, as it were.
::sigh::
And now it's time to bring this ramble full circle. Because of my particular brand of idiocy (egocentricity + different paradigm - brains [ does that make me a zombie?]), I am feeling a little scared of actually engaging with my community when I see them. QED: I don't live in community enough, and when I do, I'm still not living in community with them. And it's not good for us to live alone. The wheels on the bus go round and round...
In this particular season of my life, I am frequently reminded of just why God said that it's not good for man to be alone. I'm going to take some literary license and assume He was also thinking that women have the same need for companionship. I hope you don't find that too much of a stretch.
Feeling alright? Good.
So the reason I say that I am reminded of the very first "Not Good" in the Bible is because, to speak frankly, I am feeling remarkably lonely.
Lonely?! Whimsy? How could Whimsy possibly be lonely?! She's working two incredible jobs for fifty hours a week, all hours of which she is directly interacting with any and all customers which appear in the store? Impossible!
But you see, my friends, that is exactly the point. Just as a thin person can be in love with cheesecake; just as someone can wake up on a rainy Monday morning with a grin on their face and a giggle hiding in the corner of their mouth; just as you can remember someone you've never met; so, too, can I be lonely while working with a crowd of people.
You sort of get the idea that I love being a walking contradiction, don't you? :D
Community. It all comes down to community. The messy, awkward, groovy, and oft-maligned group of humanity with which we all dwell. The people who know us too well, or not well enough. The ones who share gossip through prayer requests, but genuinely mean all their prayers. The people who aggravate, anticipate, and intimidate but who all, somehow, manage to form that close bond inside the community. This is not your town. It is not your school. It is not found at your job or hiding under your bed, waiting to grab your ankles as you take that running leap guaranteed to save you from the alligators.
Instead, it is found in the people who have the power to change your life and your outlook whether you like it or not. I miss my community of awesome friends and awkward friends. I miss the feeling if companionship in the midst of silence. One of my favorite memories from this summer was this one moment in August, walking home from an outing to the Asian mall with a couple of friends. This moment is cemented in my mind, because the warm gold light of a late summer afternoon was sluggishly casting shadows through the trees lining the road on which we walked in silence. Conversation had lapsed for a moment, and we three were left to the meander in our own thoughts. The warm air enveloped us in a sort if timeless state: Why worry about speaking when, for that brief, glowing moment, you could savor the simple feeling of belonging somewhere. Shoes scraped softly on the ground, and we ambled on.
Or that other time, arriving late at the Welcome Home party of a few travelers. I sat awkwardly in the dim glow of the once-giant bonfire, listening to the people who make up my community joking and gaming in the gloom. As the fire subsided into ashes and I realized I had nothing intelligent or amusing to add to the gathering, a feeling of contentment spread across me. Sometimes it's good not to be the largest personality in a group. This is a good realization to come to, what with the number of larger-than-life people I associate with.
Now let's get to why I'm a bloody idiot. Admit it - the reason you've put up with this ramble so far is because of a morbid fascination with my countless means of self-deprecation. Mhmm. I know you too well.
Here goes.
In my circle, there is a definite preoccupation with the art and science of falling in love. According to the Bible, this is the right and good order of things, so please realize that I am not dismissing it. However, this preoccupation makes life a little difficult for the resident Man-Intimidator. Oh, you guessed that was me? How clever of you. Now, I have mixed feelings about my reputation. When most of the male friends in your life make a constant effort to remind you of - that one time you punched me when I tried to hug you- or - Geez, I was so frightened of you for the first few years I knew you - or - I would never upset you, you'd kill me - it's hard not to feel a little ... defective.
Incidentally, in my defense, physical touch is how I express affection for people, and the punch in question happened when a young man I had known a total of three months suddenly rushed in for a bear hug when I least expected it. It was sort of like having your bearded Aunt Matilda lean in for a kiss when you're three: Extremely traumatic and will definitely provoking a knee-jerk reaction.
But back to the mixed feelings. It's not that I'm pining for a delicious love affair - although I wouldn't say no to a likely prospect - it's that once in a while, it would be nice to feel ... lovable. To clarify: getting into a relationship really isn't a priority, and isn't even in the play book - but I like to feel as if it were an actual possibility. Yes, I do have ego issues.
I get this feeling of of likeability most often when I have a really, really good conversation. You know the type I'm talking about. The ones you can't stop thinking about, or that contain a joke that keeps making you smile. The sort of conversation that can give you the warm fuzzies for days. It's safe to say that, when around members of my community, my ears are open for one of these gems. Once a conversation shows its potential, I try to extend it for as long as possible - again, not just because I like my brain to be stimulated, but because it makes me feel sophisticated and suave and polished and not like the supremely awkward 19-year-old I am.
Unfortunately, in pursuit of these good conversations, I've made it a habit of coming across the wrong way to members of the opposite sex. Which, in turn, tends to contribute to my reputation of being "The Scary Lady June." Whee. The downward spiral continues. See, in my enthusiasm for great conversation and thoughtful analysis, I usually forget that my peers operate under a different paradigm, one where social flirting is actually romantic flirting; one where friendly interest is never just friendly interest; one where words no longer mean what the user intends.
The thing about words is that they are intended to mean something specific. When we twist our language to the point where subtext is more important than context, bad things happen. Because the subtext that one person perceives is not necessarily the subtext presented by the author. Subtext is important, but doubly so is the context the actual text is presented in. The supertext, as it were.
::sigh::
And now it's time to bring this ramble full circle. Because of my particular brand of idiocy (egocentricity + different paradigm - brains [ does that make me a zombie?]), I am feeling a little scared of actually engaging with my community when I see them. QED: I don't live in community enough, and when I do, I'm still not living in community with them. And it's not good for us to live alone. The wheels on the bus go round and round...
18 October 2012
A >>Mind-Blowing<< Thought
As you've probably gathered, I am a musician. While I cannot claim any place among the very good, I can at least claim to sing on key. Most of the time. (Scary fact: Most musicians never advance beyond intermediate mastery of their instrument.)
Often, people separate the emotional reaction to music from the emotional performance when creating it. This makes sense - a musician engaging in the act is active in their experience; the listener has a more passive role in receiving the creation. For this reason, many musicians I've talked to don't often feel the emotions they simulate while playing. When performing a piece, consistency is highly valued - being able to deliver a performance fairly similar to a previous performance indicates mastery of the piece.
But for whatever reason, my emotions are more involved when I play than when I simply listen. The marriage of the analytical - am I playing this note correctly? - and the emotional - should this section be more sorrowful? - serves to heighten the pleasure. Sort of like how sea salt is the perfect addition to caramel. The two taste good enough by themselves, but combine them, and WOW. Magic happens.
Regardless of if I'm creating or experiencing it, I can very quickly become swept into the emotion of a piece. Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony, for instance, never fails to send shivers up my spine at the prospect of a future I cannot influence (the 4th, after all, dealing almost entirety with fate and humanity's futile efforts to overcome destiny and shape their own paths). Now We Are Free, from the film Gladiator, is two parts joyous to one part melancholic, and I cry every time I hear it. Point proven: Music has a very heavy influence over my emotions. This effect is so extensive that I have created playlists themed around certain moods, designing them to gradually change my feelings to a different. I have melancholic to transition in and out of feeling sad; Choleric, to make myself excited; Sanguine, to brighten my mood to the euphoric; and Phlegmatic, to motivate myself.
Too often, I get swept away into the music without a second thought. But today, while listening to the radio's disgusting, treacly, overly auto-tuned songs at work, I overheard a customer talking about "how much [she] [was] moved by Blown Away" - a recent trending song from Carrie Underwood. Now, Blown Away is probably the only song that station plays that I would consider better than bad (yes, I'm a music snob. So sue me). But I would not say that it "touches me" to the extent this song was talking about. Likewise, the person in question probably would not be moved to tears by Leave It Alone by the ever amazing Manchester Orchestra.
And this realization got me thinking. A dange -- Yes, yes, we've heard that joke a million times. Stuff it. -- ow.
What is it about a series of notes and chords that can so strongly affect emotions? Of course, this started me on a long line of wiki-walking. Apparently, a group of researchers played famous pieces of Western music to an African tribe that had never heard music from our civilization. The people were able to correctly identify the emotions being expressed by Bach and Mozart and Beethoven -- and they had never been exposed to this style so different from their own style of music. Additionally, when the researchers altered the harmonies to be dissonant or the drum rhythms to come off-beat, the group correctly pointed out that the music sounded wrong.
Which means that music's effects are basically universal. Different societies may express those emotions differently, but the emotions can translate from culture to culture.
There are some theories about why music affects our feelings so strongly. One hypothesizes that our emotions react to that as a sort of evolutionary strength training - our emotions need to function correctly to ensure that ape-men continue to sit by the fire ( a pleasant emotion) and hunt in groups (because loneliness is unpleasant) so that the Great and Magnificent Human Gene Sequence may continue to perpetuate. Music allows our emotions to stretch and remain active even when the body is not going through an emotional event.
That feels wrong on so many levels. Not just because it doesn't make sense, but because that would rule out any possibility of non-functionality. There are pieces of art out there that are simply beautiful without causing emotions. For instance, this picture of a pepper. It's lovely, but there is no functionality. If this theory were true, it would imply only things that provide the function of exercising the emotions would be pretty.
Also, I reject this theory because I am egotistical and do not think that my only purpose on earth is to further my DNA.
Another theory says that music stirs our feelings because it is the auditory version of motion. I find this one a little more plausible - that most things that cause emotional reactions involve motion (or lack thereof) on our parts. The joy a woman might feel at seeing a SUPERAMAZINGLYCUTEADORABLEWIDDLE BABY!!! or sorrow felt seeing the body of my uncle in his coffin at the funeral home - those both elicit reactions, and both are connected to physical movement. In fact, this theory states, we can see the link. A Symphony is broken into Movements; a Partita is a series of short pieces inspired by dance; a Fugue has an inarguable sense of motion throughout.
This may hit on part of the truth. But it leaves out the main thing: if the Heavens declare the glory of the Lord, it must be because we have the capacity to hear them. Personally, I'm a little torn between whether our capacity to be moved to tears by a piece of music is because God decided to give humanity a little present - something special just because He loves us - or because it comes innately with the imago dei. After all, the first thing God does after creating is to call it "good." He appreciates His creation, and when He gave us Creativity - another divine attribute - He also gave us His ability to appreciate it.
Most likely it's a little bit of both. But regardless of the answer, I remain in awe of the whole bundle. God *could* have created us without an ounce of artistic endeavor, but He didn't. And if that isn't Grace, I don't know what is.
:DDDD
Often, people separate the emotional reaction to music from the emotional performance when creating it. This makes sense - a musician engaging in the act is active in their experience; the listener has a more passive role in receiving the creation. For this reason, many musicians I've talked to don't often feel the emotions they simulate while playing. When performing a piece, consistency is highly valued - being able to deliver a performance fairly similar to a previous performance indicates mastery of the piece.
But for whatever reason, my emotions are more involved when I play than when I simply listen. The marriage of the analytical - am I playing this note correctly? - and the emotional - should this section be more sorrowful? - serves to heighten the pleasure. Sort of like how sea salt is the perfect addition to caramel. The two taste good enough by themselves, but combine them, and WOW. Magic happens.
Regardless of if I'm creating or experiencing it, I can very quickly become swept into the emotion of a piece. Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony, for instance, never fails to send shivers up my spine at the prospect of a future I cannot influence (the 4th, after all, dealing almost entirety with fate and humanity's futile efforts to overcome destiny and shape their own paths). Now We Are Free, from the film Gladiator, is two parts joyous to one part melancholic, and I cry every time I hear it. Point proven: Music has a very heavy influence over my emotions. This effect is so extensive that I have created playlists themed around certain moods, designing them to gradually change my feelings to a different. I have melancholic to transition in and out of feeling sad; Choleric, to make myself excited; Sanguine, to brighten my mood to the euphoric; and Phlegmatic, to motivate myself.
Too often, I get swept away into the music without a second thought. But today, while listening to the radio's disgusting, treacly, overly auto-tuned songs at work, I overheard a customer talking about "how much [she] [was] moved by Blown Away" - a recent trending song from Carrie Underwood. Now, Blown Away is probably the only song that station plays that I would consider better than bad (yes, I'm a music snob. So sue me). But I would not say that it "touches me" to the extent this song was talking about. Likewise, the person in question probably would not be moved to tears by Leave It Alone by the ever amazing Manchester Orchestra.
And this realization got me thinking. A dange -- Yes, yes, we've heard that joke a million times. Stuff it. -- ow.
Isn't it amazing that music even has the capacity to affect out emotions?
What is it about a series of notes and chords that can so strongly affect emotions? Of course, this started me on a long line of wiki-walking. Apparently, a group of researchers played famous pieces of Western music to an African tribe that had never heard music from our civilization. The people were able to correctly identify the emotions being expressed by Bach and Mozart and Beethoven -- and they had never been exposed to this style so different from their own style of music. Additionally, when the researchers altered the harmonies to be dissonant or the drum rhythms to come off-beat, the group correctly pointed out that the music sounded wrong.
Which means that music's effects are basically universal. Different societies may express those emotions differently, but the emotions can translate from culture to culture.
There are some theories about why music affects our feelings so strongly. One hypothesizes that our emotions react to that as a sort of evolutionary strength training - our emotions need to function correctly to ensure that ape-men continue to sit by the fire ( a pleasant emotion) and hunt in groups (because loneliness is unpleasant) so that the Great and Magnificent Human Gene Sequence may continue to perpetuate. Music allows our emotions to stretch and remain active even when the body is not going through an emotional event.
That feels wrong on so many levels. Not just because it doesn't make sense, but because that would rule out any possibility of non-functionality. There are pieces of art out there that are simply beautiful without causing emotions. For instance, this picture of a pepper. It's lovely, but there is no functionality. If this theory were true, it would imply only things that provide the function of exercising the emotions would be pretty.
Also, I reject this theory because I am egotistical and do not think that my only purpose on earth is to further my DNA.
Another theory says that music stirs our feelings because it is the auditory version of motion. I find this one a little more plausible - that most things that cause emotional reactions involve motion (or lack thereof) on our parts. The joy a woman might feel at seeing a SUPERAMAZINGLYCUTEADORABLEWIDDLE BABY!!! or sorrow felt seeing the body of my uncle in his coffin at the funeral home - those both elicit reactions, and both are connected to physical movement. In fact, this theory states, we can see the link. A Symphony is broken into Movements; a Partita is a series of short pieces inspired by dance; a Fugue has an inarguable sense of motion throughout.
This may hit on part of the truth. But it leaves out the main thing: if the Heavens declare the glory of the Lord, it must be because we have the capacity to hear them. Personally, I'm a little torn between whether our capacity to be moved to tears by a piece of music is because God decided to give humanity a little present - something special just because He loves us - or because it comes innately with the imago dei. After all, the first thing God does after creating is to call it "good." He appreciates His creation, and when He gave us Creativity - another divine attribute - He also gave us His ability to appreciate it.
Most likely it's a little bit of both. But regardless of the answer, I remain in awe of the whole bundle. God *could* have created us without an ounce of artistic endeavor, but He didn't. And if that isn't Grace, I don't know what is.
:DDDD
GAH. THIS MUSIC IS MAKING ME HAPPY. HOW CAN THIS BE?????
16 October 2012
YES
Oh my goodness gracious yes!!
YES.
Ladies and gentlemen, another film has been added to my list of All - Time - Favorite movies. Already on the list are L'Herison, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, the Illusionist; the Batman Trilogy, and now : Memoirs of a Geisha.
Put aside that it's a Spielberg;
Put aside that John Williams *asked* to write the score ;
Put aside that Itzhak "I'm a bloody genius " Perelman and Yo - Yo " you've got to be kidding " Ma play duets;
IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL IMMA GO DIE IN MY HAPPY PLACE.
Yes, the plot may not captivate a shorter attention span; yes, it does depict some immorality in (very beautiful) detail ; yes, it deals with mature subjects.
But the beautiful details are just so exquisitely heartbreaking!! The texture! The cinematography! The close shots of entrancing, mysterious women! The layers of silk upon silk upon skin! The elegant curve of the slightly exposed nape of the neck and the subtly seductive turn of the wrist! And the colors - don't get me started.
Memoirs of a Geisha is filled with many aesthetic highs. I felt like I had used all my senses by the end. From the sweet young girl running joyfully through a long corridor of orange and black pillars to the hypnotic curl of smoke from Mother's pipe to that final, passionate kiss in the middle of a reflecting pond, this movie was simply exquisite.
If nothing else, watch it for your five senses. You will be surprised by the little motions, the tilt of the head and the curl of a Finger that stands out. It reminds me once again that it truly is the little moments that are the most profound. The most life changing. The most inspiring. And if that isn't worth reminding yourself, I don't know what is
YES.
Ladies and gentlemen, another film has been added to my list of All - Time - Favorite movies. Already on the list are L'Herison, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, the Illusionist; the Batman Trilogy, and now : Memoirs of a Geisha.
Put aside that it's a Spielberg;
Put aside that John Williams *asked* to write the score ;
Put aside that Itzhak "I'm a bloody genius " Perelman and Yo - Yo " you've got to be kidding " Ma play duets;
IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL IMMA GO DIE IN MY HAPPY PLACE.
Yes, the plot may not captivate a shorter attention span; yes, it does depict some immorality in (very beautiful) detail ; yes, it deals with mature subjects.
But the beautiful details are just so exquisitely heartbreaking!! The texture! The cinematography! The close shots of entrancing, mysterious women! The layers of silk upon silk upon skin! The elegant curve of the slightly exposed nape of the neck and the subtly seductive turn of the wrist! And the colors - don't get me started.
Memoirs of a Geisha is filled with many aesthetic highs. I felt like I had used all my senses by the end. From the sweet young girl running joyfully through a long corridor of orange and black pillars to the hypnotic curl of smoke from Mother's pipe to that final, passionate kiss in the middle of a reflecting pond, this movie was simply exquisite.
If nothing else, watch it for your five senses. You will be surprised by the little motions, the tilt of the head and the curl of a Finger that stands out. It reminds me once again that it truly is the little moments that are the most profound. The most life changing. The most inspiring. And if that isn't worth reminding yourself, I don't know what is
15 October 2012
Moondance
Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
Beneath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush
Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?
A few weeks ago, my friend Argentum (Args? Arggy? ... sorry. :P) posted about his ongoing quest to find his lady, the lovely and ephemeral Autumn. I must admit, I was jealous that his personal Autumn came to visit him much sooner than mine did.
Summer dies so beautifully here in the Northwest that it is small wonder Fall remains my favorite season. The dove grey sky so startlingly split by warm, gold, sun beams. The smell of last night's rain so still and fresh on the pavement. The blowing rain and gusting leaves that hurl themselves to the ground with raw enthusiasm and the last of their vitality. The trees that flame from the outside in, leaves red and raw and green and young all at once. The warm jackets, the scratchy scarfs, the sweet taste of acorn squash on my tongue and the smell of apples outside my window. The rustle of wind through the trees and the scraping of twigs on windows.
I treasure this time of year. It reminds me of Peter Bradley Adams, of the Decemberists, of the Civil Wars, Manchester Orchestra, and Michael Buble all at once. I love the insidious cold that creeps along behind me, dogging my steps, ready to spring when once I stop moving. This runs the risk of sounding flippant, but it is truly ~~lovely ~~.
I spoke about this a few posts ago, about a missions trip I am saving up for. I sent my application in to a YWAM based in Perth, Australia. If I am accepted, I will be spending the fine Northwestern winter in Australia's foreign summer. And once I return, I will spend my freckled Summer preparing to move to California for four years of college.
It is driven home to me with every passing day that this is the last intoxicating, exhilarating Autumn I shall see in a long while. My life for the next few years will be one of Summer. And this sobering, melancholy realization reminds me of another song, by the simply sublime group Mouth Music. You can listen to this song here.
"And all the leaves are turning brown,
Yet I can find no reason
To tear myself from Puget Sound
And see her world again..."
This Autumn Romance must be conducted with the brilliance of a shooting star, not only because it deserves that much, but because it heralds the end to an era in my life.
I just want one more moondance with you, my dear...
And the wanting comes in waves.
14 October 2012
I'd Rather Feel Pain Pt. 1
than Nothing at All...
Earlier this summer, I finally got around to reading the Fault in our Stars, by John Green. I liked it, so I read it again, and then for a third time. It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, Great Literature; it is, however, a very decent book that resonates with a lot of teen-aged readers in a way entirely separate from Twilight. It is also a book I thoroughly enjoyed. Why? Because it made me think for a long time after reading it.
Anywhoo, the following is a series of reflections on a single quote from the book.
I don't mean that pain or suffering, when compared to joy, makes the happiness seem better, brighter or sweeter. I don't mean that pain is just karma expressing itself to let us know how lucky we are to have good times. No, I mean that pain, by itself, separated from all other corollary experiences, is necessary to be truly human.
And this is no ordinary, purely physical, I-just-impaled-my-foot-on-a-hook sort of pain, but ability to experience anguish, heart break, and despair. No animal experiences heart ache on the same level that humans do. True, we've all seen the Animal Planet documentaries where elephants stand over the bodies of their dead herd mates for days. These displays, when accompanied by the dispassionate voice of the omniscient narrators, seem to be the same as the pain a mother feels when her son dies, or the pain of an elderly man after his wife of sixty years passes on, or the pain of a teenager's first love moving on.
No animal can nurse heartbreak the way a human can. If you're burned by a friend once, the way you interact with all people thereafter will inevitably change. If your husband (or wife) of decades dies, you cannot simply go back to the way life was before you met the best friend you had for the majority of your life. To be human is to change, to morph, to adapt, to grow around foreign objects in our hearts, to form scar tissue, and to heal into a new person.
Now, a lot of my friends are obsessed with "truly living life" - a worthy goal, but perhaps a little one-sided in its practice. Yes, a full life should include adventuring with friends and perhaps a little kissing in the rain; climbing trees and storm drains; living victoriously at Mach 4. But I submit that life that was really lived also includes hard crashes; broken hearts; unrequited love; death of dreams; loss of companions.
If pain is a defining characteristic of humanity (and I firmly believe it is) then we should revel in the hurt as well as the victory. The people we allow to hurt us have been given a trust - their actions will shape who we become, not just who we are at a certain moment in time.
We should revel in heartache, because a broken heart is just a symptom of our ability to love.
Ahhh, humans. You're so fascinating!
If you got through that long ramble, I lift my hat to you. I'm not entirely sure I understand everything I'm trying to say.
Earlier this summer, I finally got around to reading the Fault in our Stars, by John Green. I liked it, so I read it again, and then for a third time. It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, Great Literature; it is, however, a very decent book that resonates with a lot of teen-aged readers in a way entirely separate from Twilight. It is also a book I thoroughly enjoyed. Why? Because it made me think for a long time after reading it.
Anywhoo, the following is a series of reflections on a single quote from the book.
"It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you."
Theory: Pain makes one human.I don't mean that pain or suffering, when compared to joy, makes the happiness seem better, brighter or sweeter. I don't mean that pain is just karma expressing itself to let us know how lucky we are to have good times. No, I mean that pain, by itself, separated from all other corollary experiences, is necessary to be truly human.
And this is no ordinary, purely physical, I-just-impaled-my-foot-on-a-hook sort of pain, but ability to experience anguish, heart break, and despair. No animal experiences heart ache on the same level that humans do. True, we've all seen the Animal Planet documentaries where elephants stand over the bodies of their dead herd mates for days. These displays, when accompanied by the dispassionate voice of the omniscient narrators, seem to be the same as the pain a mother feels when her son dies, or the pain of an elderly man after his wife of sixty years passes on, or the pain of a teenager's first love moving on.
No animal can nurse heartbreak the way a human can. If you're burned by a friend once, the way you interact with all people thereafter will inevitably change. If your husband (or wife) of decades dies, you cannot simply go back to the way life was before you met the best friend you had for the majority of your life. To be human is to change, to morph, to adapt, to grow around foreign objects in our hearts, to form scar tissue, and to heal into a new person.
Now, a lot of my friends are obsessed with "truly living life" - a worthy goal, but perhaps a little one-sided in its practice. Yes, a full life should include adventuring with friends and perhaps a little kissing in the rain; climbing trees and storm drains; living victoriously at Mach 4. But I submit that life that was really lived also includes hard crashes; broken hearts; unrequited love; death of dreams; loss of companions.
If pain is a defining characteristic of humanity (and I firmly believe it is) then we should revel in the hurt as well as the victory. The people we allow to hurt us have been given a trust - their actions will shape who we become, not just who we are at a certain moment in time.
We should revel in heartache, because a broken heart is just a symptom of our ability to love.
Ahhh, humans. You're so fascinating!
If you got through that long ramble, I lift my hat to you. I'm not entirely sure I understand everything I'm trying to say.
27 August 2012
No Words
I know I haven't been posting all that much this summer, and it's entirely inexcusable. Let me offer you a brief explanation before jumping on into today's story. I decided that this summer would be the best one ever, and it seemed to me that goal would be impossible if I spent much time online instead of pursuing adventures. This endeavour has met with only limited success, due partially to the following tale of adventure, romance, and awe-inspiring displays of awesomeness on the high seas. [No, really! {well, maybe not entirely} (or not)]
But let us put that aside for the time being.
Ladles and jellyspoons, toys and squirrels,
I stand here before you to hold your back
As I tell you a story I know nothing about.
The train I came on has not yet arrived,
So I took a bus and walked.
So draw up a chair and sit on the floor,
Admission is free:
Pay at the door.
Exactly a year ago last summer, I went to Gleanings for the Hungry in Dinuba, California. The week was absolutely awesome, for a number of personal reasons, not all of them I shall go into. I'll say this much: A week of manual labor for God's glory in 100+ degree weather does wonderful things for the state of your heart and soul.
At the end of my time at Gleanings, the eighty-some workers were given the chance to speak to the rest of the group about whatever happened to be on their hearts. A lot of people got in line, and there were many who said the same things we've all heard at the end of church camps: "I love y'all so much, God has done amazing things here in my heart, I'm going to miss y'all so much, you've changed my life," etc.
Now, I'm not saying that those feelings aren't genuine. It's just, I've been an egregious offender with speeches like that in the past, and had a firm resolve not to give in the Bible High and say something sappy. Not I, no sir'ee. I was determined not to join the swelling ranks of people going up to express those sentiments.
As I was sitting there, I kept feeling like I was REALLY SUPPOSED to go up and say something, but I didn't want to. I didn't know what I would say except the whole I-love-everyone-so-much, so I just wouldn't go up. But it kept coming back. You have to get in line to say something. No. No, really, get in line, say what I tell you to say. I WILL NOT EMBARRASS MYSELF. Whimsy, get in line. Now.
So it was with reluctance that I finally found myself in the line snaking up towards the microphone. In all likelihood, I would burst out in tears, tell everyone they'd changed my life, and take a seat. But when I got to the mic, I started speaking words I had never even thought about. I started testifying about a terrifying experience I had earlier that year at my last Regionals in speech and debate, how that had put it in my heart that Love is not just a feeling of goodwill towards others, but also an action demanded of us by a holy, righteous, justice-loving God. How God's love for the World was why He sent Jesus, and if Jesus truly lives in our hearts, He sends us to Love the world, too. And yes, there may have been some tears involved.
Well, I finally finished the entirely unplanned, impromptu speech, and one of the missionaries at Gleanings told me that what I had just said was a personal manifesto and mission from God, adding that he expected to hear what I had done when I came back "next year."
Over the coming weeks, it became clear to me that yes, a call into missions was present, and yes, I was supposed to do something about it. I started saving money. But when I started applying for jobs, nothing went smoothly.
The first job I thought I got was given to someone else. I have more "we regret to inform you we are not able to offer you employment at this time" emails than I even want to think about. Some companies never got back to me, some interviewed me and then never got back to me. Most companies looked at my non-existent job history and just raised an eyebrow before crumpling my resume into a ball and throwing it over their shoulders in the general direction of the trash.
I started wondering if I weren't delusional. Maybe that "call" I received so many months ago was nothing more than a Bible-High, after all. Maybe, it was simply my hyper-inflamed wanderlust putting on religious clothing to justify its existence. Maybe, putting off college for a year to work and do a mission trip were entirely outside of God's will. I started praying, desperately. If the mission trip really was my own selfish dream, I didn't want to give it up, but I knew I needed to. And if that were the case, I would need help to reconcile myself to that reality. Conversely, I had reached the point where I needed confirmation that I was still inside His will. After all, the steps I had taken to follow the path I thought was clear had all been rudely thwarted.
I've been praying about that since April - nothing. But that all changed last Sunday.
Last Sunday, I was praying the same thing I've been praying for months. Subjugate my will to Yours, confirm Your will in my life, etc. etc. Prayer time ended, and church broke for a snack before the hour-long sermon (you really need to fortify yourself to sit through them). Berg's family had brought a friend with them to church, and she introduced herself on my way to the kitchen. We got to chatting, and I briefly mentioned my plan for the mission trip this upcoming January. Berg's friend looked at me and smiled - she'd just gotten a job that paid her more than she had originally expected, and she wanted to use that unexpected money toward God's Kingdom. Here, take this.
That night, I spent the night with Lady Specs, as she was leaving for college (yesterday, actually) and I wanted to see her one last time before she left. You can probably guess where this is going: after I get to her house, she tells me that she wants to give my mission trip a tithe, since she doesn't regularly attend/belong to any church. She gives me another significant amount of money - the third event that helps my mission trip in the course of about three hours.
At this point, I'm getting on the verge of hysteria. No joke, I felt like I was going to break out into nervous giggles at any time. Sunday was a good day, and I thought that was that, so to speak. God had clearly given three different confirmations that yes, the mission trip was still supposed to be a thing. Good to know God, thank you so much! , and by the way, you're totally awesome. In the literal, dictionary definition sense of the word. I was not expecting anything more - totally satisfied and overwhelmed by what I had seen and experienced that day.
But anyways, REI calls. They want to hire me. Can I come in on the 6th to meet my new manager?
And then today, Sunday, the 26th, Berg's friend is at church once again. She has brought more money, specifically as a contribution towards my mission trip - the last was, apparently, just a free will offering to God in thanksgiving for her job.
...
...
...
..
..
At this point, I really have no words left. My >>MIND<< is officially >>BLOWN<<
But let us put that aside for the time being.
Ladles and jellyspoons, toys and squirrels,
I stand here before you to hold your back
As I tell you a story I know nothing about.
The train I came on has not yet arrived,
So I took a bus and walked.
So draw up a chair and sit on the floor,
Admission is free:
Pay at the door.
Exactly a year ago last summer, I went to Gleanings for the Hungry in Dinuba, California. The week was absolutely awesome, for a number of personal reasons, not all of them I shall go into. I'll say this much: A week of manual labor for God's glory in 100+ degree weather does wonderful things for the state of your heart and soul.
At the end of my time at Gleanings, the eighty-some workers were given the chance to speak to the rest of the group about whatever happened to be on their hearts. A lot of people got in line, and there were many who said the same things we've all heard at the end of church camps: "I love y'all so much, God has done amazing things here in my heart, I'm going to miss y'all so much, you've changed my life," etc.
Now, I'm not saying that those feelings aren't genuine. It's just, I've been an egregious offender with speeches like that in the past, and had a firm resolve not to give in the Bible High and say something sappy. Not I, no sir'ee. I was determined not to join the swelling ranks of people going up to express those sentiments.
As I was sitting there, I kept feeling like I was REALLY SUPPOSED to go up and say something, but I didn't want to. I didn't know what I would say except the whole I-love-everyone-so-much, so I just wouldn't go up. But it kept coming back. You have to get in line to say something. No. No, really, get in line, say what I tell you to say. I WILL NOT EMBARRASS MYSELF. Whimsy, get in line. Now.
So it was with reluctance that I finally found myself in the line snaking up towards the microphone. In all likelihood, I would burst out in tears, tell everyone they'd changed my life, and take a seat. But when I got to the mic, I started speaking words I had never even thought about. I started testifying about a terrifying experience I had earlier that year at my last Regionals in speech and debate, how that had put it in my heart that Love is not just a feeling of goodwill towards others, but also an action demanded of us by a holy, righteous, justice-loving God. How God's love for the World was why He sent Jesus, and if Jesus truly lives in our hearts, He sends us to Love the world, too. And yes, there may have been some tears involved.
Well, I finally finished the entirely unplanned, impromptu speech, and one of the missionaries at Gleanings told me that what I had just said was a personal manifesto and mission from God, adding that he expected to hear what I had done when I came back "next year."
Over the coming weeks, it became clear to me that yes, a call into missions was present, and yes, I was supposed to do something about it. I started saving money. But when I started applying for jobs, nothing went smoothly.
The first job I thought I got was given to someone else. I have more "we regret to inform you we are not able to offer you employment at this time" emails than I even want to think about. Some companies never got back to me, some interviewed me and then never got back to me. Most companies looked at my non-existent job history and just raised an eyebrow before crumpling my resume into a ball and throwing it over their shoulders in the general direction of the trash.
I started wondering if I weren't delusional. Maybe that "call" I received so many months ago was nothing more than a Bible-High, after all. Maybe, it was simply my hyper-inflamed wanderlust putting on religious clothing to justify its existence. Maybe, putting off college for a year to work and do a mission trip were entirely outside of God's will. I started praying, desperately. If the mission trip really was my own selfish dream, I didn't want to give it up, but I knew I needed to. And if that were the case, I would need help to reconcile myself to that reality. Conversely, I had reached the point where I needed confirmation that I was still inside His will. After all, the steps I had taken to follow the path I thought was clear had all been rudely thwarted.
I've been praying about that since April - nothing. But that all changed last Sunday.
Last Sunday, I was praying the same thing I've been praying for months. Subjugate my will to Yours, confirm Your will in my life, etc. etc. Prayer time ended, and church broke for a snack before the hour-long sermon (you really need to fortify yourself to sit through them). Berg's family had brought a friend with them to church, and she introduced herself on my way to the kitchen. We got to chatting, and I briefly mentioned my plan for the mission trip this upcoming January. Berg's friend looked at me and smiled - she'd just gotten a job that paid her more than she had originally expected, and she wanted to use that unexpected money toward God's Kingdom. Here, take this.
That was less than five minutes after I'd prayed for confirmation.
But it gets crazier. My dad was preaching the sermon last Sunday, but I was a little unnerved by the experience. After the sermon, I hurriedly told Dad about what had happened with the visitor. We prayed together, thanking God for His goodness, and went upstairs to fetch Dad's keys to put away some things in the car. I randomly checked my cell-phone, and was surprised to see a text from a store I had applied at months ago, wanting to know if I could come in for an interview in half an hour.It takes exactly half-an-hour to get to the store from my church.
Dad and I jumped in the car, and I hurriedly changed my t-shirt for a nice blouse. I got there precisely on time, despite traffic and the short notice. Fifteen minutes after I returned to church, the shop texted me again, offering the job.We're still not done, though.
That night, I spent the night with Lady Specs, as she was leaving for college (yesterday, actually) and I wanted to see her one last time before she left. You can probably guess where this is going: after I get to her house, she tells me that she wants to give my mission trip a tithe, since she doesn't regularly attend/belong to any church. She gives me another significant amount of money - the third event that helps my mission trip in the course of about three hours.
At this point, I'm getting on the verge of hysteria. No joke, I felt like I was going to break out into nervous giggles at any time. Sunday was a good day, and I thought that was that, so to speak. God had clearly given three different confirmations that yes, the mission trip was still supposed to be a thing. Good to know God, thank you so much! , and by the way, you're totally awesome. In the literal, dictionary definition sense of the word. I was not expecting anything more - totally satisfied and overwhelmed by what I had seen and experienced that day.
God hasn't finished yet, though.
On Friday, I get a phone call. A phone call from REI, one of the companies I more recently applied to, but didn't feel entirely certain of my performance in the second interview. After all, the competition had been 150 people trying to get 20 part time, seasonal positions.But anyways, REI calls. They want to hire me. Can I come in on the 6th to meet my new manager?
And then today, Sunday, the 26th, Berg's friend is at church once again. She has brought more money, specifically as a contribution towards my mission trip - the last was, apparently, just a free will offering to God in thanksgiving for her job.
...
...
...
..
..
At this point, I really have no words left. My >>MIND<< is officially >>BLOWN<<
30 June 2012
A little light Newness
I've become increasingly bored with my current screen name, Problematic. Not because it's bad or I no longer identify as her, but because I've used it for so long it's become old. I am choosing between two names, but I'd like your input.
Drumroll, please.
The first option is:
And the second:
Please comment and tell me which you prefer, and why. If you've got another idea, tell me! :)
Sincerely,
B
Drumroll, please.
The first option is:
Lady (June) Whimsy
And the second:
April Shower
Please comment and tell me which you prefer, and why. If you've got another idea, tell me! :)
Sincerely,
B
24 June 2012
Amateur
Last Friday, I hit the town with some friends to celebrate someone's birthday. Least you get the wrong impression, by "hitting the town" I really mean "let's go iceskating tonight when the prices are reduced because no one in their right minds goes ice skating on Friday night."
We got there a little early to rent skates and lessons were ending. A bunch of small children, mostly girls, were skating around in miniature skate costumes practicing jumps and spins and extensions that I once did in ballet but would be entirely incapable of performing on an ice arena. A few older women were there, helping to coach the munchkins, and getting in a couple moves of their own.
There were two particular girls who stood out to me as I stood by the side of the rink. The first was a little girl who looked so innocent you just knew she was hiding something. She was, at most, two and a half feet tall - no more than maybe three years old. Bundled up with coats and a hat and a couple scarfs over her pretty skating dress, it looked like, should she fall, she would just bounce softly off the ice. She toddled and teetered around the arena, performing a routine - complete with spins, twinkle toes, and a little pose at the end - led by the other woman who had caught my attention.
This girl looked around my age, and had a very pleasant face. It was soft and amiable, but at the moment I saw her, had an expression of fixed concentration. You see, while she was not helping the toddler, she was practicing her own routine, which the toddler continued to imitate. The older girl was very elegant, moving across the rough ice serenely.
I am a very competitive person. I challenge myself to do things excellently, even if I do not win or gain in any way: It pleases me to be excellent. As I stood watching the munchkins, I started feelign that desire for excellence rising up in me, especially as I watched the toddler and her teacher. I want to be able to skate like that. I'd love to be that elegant and move with such serenity.
Well, the lesson ended, and my friends and I were allowed to step on the ice. It was roughed up by all the spins practiced on it just before, but it didn't matter much because our skates were so dull they could have slipped on anything. I took a turn around the rink, tottering and holding on to the wall. Soon, however, a thing or two about skating came back to me. I'd taken a few lessons when I was younger, and was pretty pleased I could remember it.
As I slid my way around the rink, gaining momentum and a sense of confidence, I had another Big Idea hit me. It crept up from behind and just kind of jumped me, with no prior warning.
It's okay to be an amateur.
I'd like to point out that there is a small rebel inside of me sitting in a corner and shooting nasty glares at me as I type.
I wanna be perfect! I wanna do it right! I'm going to be amazing at everything I do even if it kills me. SO THERE! Just see if I have a life! I'm going to be flawless!
I have one thing to say to myself: Shut up. Think about it for a second.
Ice-skating is most fun when it's accompanied with plenty of friends, a couple spills, and all the weak-ankled, wobbling that comes with not knowing how to do it. It's a romantic activity to be done with your significant other, it's a signature of winter, and if done correctly, it's good fun.
Do you think an Olympic figure skater ever goes wibbling and wobbling around a public rink with some friends, racing and trying to skate backwards, before retiring to the side for hot chocolate and Hot Pockets? One word: NOTACHANCE. (That's one word. There are no spaces).
Do you think a concert pianist ever sits down with some friends, fumbles around on the keys, plays something that unexpectedly sounds good (with no application of years of music theory and experience), and then have everyone chime in on their instruments and have a good, old fashioned, not-always-sounding-good, jam session? Unlikely.
Do you think a clothing designer ever goes into a thrift store, picks all the ugliest clothes off the rack, and then has fun laughing with friends at the ridiculous combonations. Probably not.
My point is, while it is admirable, even best to strive for excellence and mastery in areas you're interested in, there is nothing wrong with not perfecting everything. Goals; yes. Obssession for perfection: no.
We got there a little early to rent skates and lessons were ending. A bunch of small children, mostly girls, were skating around in miniature skate costumes practicing jumps and spins and extensions that I once did in ballet but would be entirely incapable of performing on an ice arena. A few older women were there, helping to coach the munchkins, and getting in a couple moves of their own.
There were two particular girls who stood out to me as I stood by the side of the rink. The first was a little girl who looked so innocent you just knew she was hiding something. She was, at most, two and a half feet tall - no more than maybe three years old. Bundled up with coats and a hat and a couple scarfs over her pretty skating dress, it looked like, should she fall, she would just bounce softly off the ice. She toddled and teetered around the arena, performing a routine - complete with spins, twinkle toes, and a little pose at the end - led by the other woman who had caught my attention.
This girl looked around my age, and had a very pleasant face. It was soft and amiable, but at the moment I saw her, had an expression of fixed concentration. You see, while she was not helping the toddler, she was practicing her own routine, which the toddler continued to imitate. The older girl was very elegant, moving across the rough ice serenely.
I am a very competitive person. I challenge myself to do things excellently, even if I do not win or gain in any way: It pleases me to be excellent. As I stood watching the munchkins, I started feelign that desire for excellence rising up in me, especially as I watched the toddler and her teacher. I want to be able to skate like that. I'd love to be that elegant and move with such serenity.
Well, the lesson ended, and my friends and I were allowed to step on the ice. It was roughed up by all the spins practiced on it just before, but it didn't matter much because our skates were so dull they could have slipped on anything. I took a turn around the rink, tottering and holding on to the wall. Soon, however, a thing or two about skating came back to me. I'd taken a few lessons when I was younger, and was pretty pleased I could remember it.
As I slid my way around the rink, gaining momentum and a sense of confidence, I had another Big Idea hit me. It crept up from behind and just kind of jumped me, with no prior warning.
It's okay to be an amateur.
I'd like to point out that there is a small rebel inside of me sitting in a corner and shooting nasty glares at me as I type.
I wanna be perfect! I wanna do it right! I'm going to be amazing at everything I do even if it kills me. SO THERE! Just see if I have a life! I'm going to be flawless!
I have one thing to say to myself: Shut up. Think about it for a second.
Ice-skating is most fun when it's accompanied with plenty of friends, a couple spills, and all the weak-ankled, wobbling that comes with not knowing how to do it. It's a romantic activity to be done with your significant other, it's a signature of winter, and if done correctly, it's good fun.
Do you think an Olympic figure skater ever goes wibbling and wobbling around a public rink with some friends, racing and trying to skate backwards, before retiring to the side for hot chocolate and Hot Pockets? One word: NOTACHANCE. (That's one word. There are no spaces).
Do you think a concert pianist ever sits down with some friends, fumbles around on the keys, plays something that unexpectedly sounds good (with no application of years of music theory and experience), and then have everyone chime in on their instruments and have a good, old fashioned, not-always-sounding-good, jam session? Unlikely.
Do you think a clothing designer ever goes into a thrift store, picks all the ugliest clothes off the rack, and then has fun laughing with friends at the ridiculous combonations. Probably not.
My point is, while it is admirable, even best to strive for excellence and mastery in areas you're interested in, there is nothing wrong with not perfecting everything. Goals; yes. Obssession for perfection: no.
23 June 2012
Imminentizing the Eschaton
A few weeks ago, I was talking with my friend Hannah at school. Not this Hannah, (though she's pretty awesome and you should go read her blog) but a different Hannah. They're pretty similar, in a couple ways, but let's move on from this hang up.
Hannah and I were working late at school in the MIDI lab on a project. The MIDI lab closed at 7:00 pm, so we packed up and left to the bus stop. However, the buses stop running every ten minutes at 7:00pm, so we had a wait of about 30 minutes before our respective buses came.
Naturally, we fell to talking in the interim. Subjects included everything from classes to weekend plans, and then finally, to personalities. Hannah is a self-described "quirky person," a fact to which I can easily attest. On the day in question, she was wearing, in addition to a skirt, heels, and flowing top, an American flag scarf. She has worn similarly unusual clothing articles to class previously. But it was not her clothing that made me include her in this post.
While talking about unusual interests, my classmate said something to the effect of :
Just think about that for a second. If you like, rephrase it a bit.
What, you may ask, is "imminentizing the eschaton?" Well, imminent means "near" or "close:, so imminentizing would be to make something draw near. Eschaton is simply heaven or utopia. To imminentize the eschaton, then, would be to attempt to draw heaven, or utopia, close to earth.
The problem with imminentizing the eschaton is that it doesn't tend to work. Whether it's European interpretations of communism or mid-20th century eugenics, man's interpretations of the Eschaton and their abilities to bring it down to earth remain deeply flawed.
Hence, when little Tommy imminentizes the eschaton, it appears on his report card alongside running with scissors and licking paste.
The thing is, I've been thinking a lot about how this is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, historical attempts to bring heaven to earth have failed not so much because heaven is not meant to be on earth, but rather, their version of heaven is not meant to be. When approached theoretically, communism is a pretty brilliant idea. Don't get me wrong - every time we've ever tried to apply it, it's failed miserably - but if you take the pesky realm of reality out of the picture, communism is great! The idea of sharing everything in common is the same as what inspired early Christians in Jerusalem.
The very idea of heaven or utopia is peaceful. Not the drug induced peace of the hippy, but the pure and lasting peace that can only come through God's grace. There is something inherently wrong about co-opting earthly authority to administer one person's innately flawed vision of utopia. This is not even considering that utopia, by definition, exists nowhere. But anyways. If it is really heaven, it will have no need of strict rules, harsh retributions, or policing. Communism will always fail because it is foreign to human nature, and moreover, the force required to perpetuate it goes against the very idea of Heaven on Earth.
I digress. To sum the very wordy point I've made, the reason attempts to immimentize the eschaton have failed so spectacularly in the past is because humans try to use earthly authority to enforce utopia.
"Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like its heaven on earth." [The internet attributes this one to Mark Twain, but we all know how trustworthy the internet is on these things].
I would submit to you, dear readers, that the real sign of a Christian is how they imminentize the eschaton wherever they go. We are imago dei, the living representation of the Church, and we are to spread our joy wherever we go. Sounds suspiciously like bringing heaven to earth. If we are really the Body of Christ, then "Wherever we go, that's where the party's at {Newsboys}." Ahem. To approach it more seriously, the duty of the church is, in part, to bring a foretaste of heaven to all still living on Earth. Like an appetizer, our behavior should be a preview of things to come - as far as it is up to us, live in peace with all men.
There's one question that's been running through my head these past few weeks. Do I imminentize the eschaton? Do I live as though heaven were on earth? Can I truly love half-heartedly and claim to be a good representation of God's love for the world?
So to conclude this very long post, I would ask you: Do you long to bring heaven to earth?
Hannah and I were working late at school in the MIDI lab on a project. The MIDI lab closed at 7:00 pm, so we packed up and left to the bus stop. However, the buses stop running every ten minutes at 7:00pm, so we had a wait of about 30 minutes before our respective buses came.
Naturally, we fell to talking in the interim. Subjects included everything from classes to weekend plans, and then finally, to personalities. Hannah is a self-described "quirky person," a fact to which I can easily attest. On the day in question, she was wearing, in addition to a skirt, heels, and flowing top, an American flag scarf. She has worn similarly unusual clothing articles to class previously. But it was not her clothing that made me include her in this post.
While talking about unusual interests, my classmate said something to the effect of :
"A life without an obsession isn't life."
Just think about that for a second. If you like, rephrase it a bit.
"A life without passion isn't life."
For something entirely different, let me tell you a little story. When I was still in high school, I took a Rhetoric class taught by a pretty awesome seminary graduate, musician, and person. It was one of the ongoing jokes in class that "Little Tommy runs with scissors, doesn't play with others, and imminentizes the eschaton."What, you may ask, is "imminentizing the eschaton?" Well, imminent means "near" or "close:, so imminentizing would be to make something draw near. Eschaton is simply heaven or utopia. To imminentize the eschaton, then, would be to attempt to draw heaven, or utopia, close to earth.
The problem with imminentizing the eschaton is that it doesn't tend to work. Whether it's European interpretations of communism or mid-20th century eugenics, man's interpretations of the Eschaton and their abilities to bring it down to earth remain deeply flawed.
Hence, when little Tommy imminentizes the eschaton, it appears on his report card alongside running with scissors and licking paste.
The thing is, I've been thinking a lot about how this is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, historical attempts to bring heaven to earth have failed not so much because heaven is not meant to be on earth, but rather, their version of heaven is not meant to be. When approached theoretically, communism is a pretty brilliant idea. Don't get me wrong - every time we've ever tried to apply it, it's failed miserably - but if you take the pesky realm of reality out of the picture, communism is great! The idea of sharing everything in common is the same as what inspired early Christians in Jerusalem.
The very idea of heaven or utopia is peaceful. Not the drug induced peace of the hippy, but the pure and lasting peace that can only come through God's grace. There is something inherently wrong about co-opting earthly authority to administer one person's innately flawed vision of utopia. This is not even considering that utopia, by definition, exists nowhere. But anyways. If it is really heaven, it will have no need of strict rules, harsh retributions, or policing. Communism will always fail because it is foreign to human nature, and moreover, the force required to perpetuate it goes against the very idea of Heaven on Earth.
I digress. To sum the very wordy point I've made, the reason attempts to immimentize the eschaton have failed so spectacularly in the past is because humans try to use earthly authority to enforce utopia.
"Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like its heaven on earth." [The internet attributes this one to Mark Twain, but we all know how trustworthy the internet is on these things].
I would submit to you, dear readers, that the real sign of a Christian is how they imminentize the eschaton wherever they go. We are imago dei, the living representation of the Church, and we are to spread our joy wherever we go. Sounds suspiciously like bringing heaven to earth. If we are really the Body of Christ, then "Wherever we go, that's where the party's at {Newsboys}." Ahem. To approach it more seriously, the duty of the church is, in part, to bring a foretaste of heaven to all still living on Earth. Like an appetizer, our behavior should be a preview of things to come - as far as it is up to us, live in peace with all men.
There's one question that's been running through my head these past few weeks. Do I imminentize the eschaton? Do I live as though heaven were on earth? Can I truly love half-heartedly and claim to be a good representation of God's love for the world?
So to conclude this very long post, I would ask you: Do you long to bring heaven to earth?
19 June 2012
The Musician's Dilemma
Here's a thought for you. Of all the arts, music is unique in that the music heard by the audience is not the music the musician hears. No, I'm not talking about those Beethovenesque composers who hear the music inside their head and then write it down. I mean the physical performance of music.
As I practice violin, my mom or I will occasionally comment that "Oh, Ignatius [my violin] is really singing today." Mom's comment never fails to make me feel good about my playing, but I have absolutely no idea what she hears.
What mom means and what I mean when we talk about my violin singing are two entirely different things. I can only assume that mom's reference means that Iggy sounds very rich and full, and comparatively well played. I don't hear that sound though. When Iggy "sings" for me, it feels as though he's breathing. The gritty sounds the bow makes as I draw it across the strings; the feeling of the string vibrating underneath my fingertips, the booming, hollow sound as the chamber amplifies the sound of the strings - these all add up to the experience of a violinist. I hear surface noise and notes: mom hears music.
All of the factors that I experience as a violinist add up to the sound that mom hears and calls "singing," but some aspects are amplified and some die away. From six inches away, you can hear the surface noise, but remove yourself by three feet , and all you hear is a sweet, sweet melody.
To approach it another way, when someone first hears a recording of their voice, they almost always feel shocked. I sound like **that**? NO WAY. As speakers, we feel the air forcing sound out of our throats, hear the sound reverberating through our nasal cavities and mouth, hear the small noises made as the words are formed, and feel the entire process from start of breath to formation of sentences. Our experience is unique: while everyone else hears pretty much the same voice, only the speaker (or singer) hears the parts before they're combined as a whole.
When a musician plays guitar, they hear the sound of the pick slipping and grabbing the strings, feel the frets, hard and unforgiving under their fingers, and feel the body of the guitar resonating in time to their picks and strokes.
If this is true, and I strongly believe it is, it raises an interesting question.
Musicians frequently speak of "being in love with their music," but they don't really hear the music they make. So does this mean that they're in love with the idea of making music, or are they in love with the performance? More specifically, are we enamored with an idea (that other people will enjoy what we make), or are we addicted to the creative process? Are we focused on the enjoyment of an audience, or the sheer power of skill used well?
As I practice violin, my mom or I will occasionally comment that "Oh, Ignatius [my violin] is really singing today." Mom's comment never fails to make me feel good about my playing, but I have absolutely no idea what she hears.
What mom means and what I mean when we talk about my violin singing are two entirely different things. I can only assume that mom's reference means that Iggy sounds very rich and full, and comparatively well played. I don't hear that sound though. When Iggy "sings" for me, it feels as though he's breathing. The gritty sounds the bow makes as I draw it across the strings; the feeling of the string vibrating underneath my fingertips, the booming, hollow sound as the chamber amplifies the sound of the strings - these all add up to the experience of a violinist. I hear surface noise and notes: mom hears music.
All of the factors that I experience as a violinist add up to the sound that mom hears and calls "singing," but some aspects are amplified and some die away. From six inches away, you can hear the surface noise, but remove yourself by three feet , and all you hear is a sweet, sweet melody.
To approach it another way, when someone first hears a recording of their voice, they almost always feel shocked. I sound like **that**? NO WAY. As speakers, we feel the air forcing sound out of our throats, hear the sound reverberating through our nasal cavities and mouth, hear the small noises made as the words are formed, and feel the entire process from start of breath to formation of sentences. Our experience is unique: while everyone else hears pretty much the same voice, only the speaker (or singer) hears the parts before they're combined as a whole.
When a musician plays guitar, they hear the sound of the pick slipping and grabbing the strings, feel the frets, hard and unforgiving under their fingers, and feel the body of the guitar resonating in time to their picks and strokes.
If this is true, and I strongly believe it is, it raises an interesting question.
Musicians frequently speak of "being in love with their music," but they don't really hear the music they make. So does this mean that they're in love with the idea of making music, or are they in love with the performance? More specifically, are we enamored with an idea (that other people will enjoy what we make), or are we addicted to the creative process? Are we focused on the enjoyment of an audience, or the sheer power of skill used well?
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