Sometimes I feel very sharklike, in that I need to keep moving at all times in order to stay (in this case psychologically) alive. When I have little to do, I desire to do little: when I have much to do, that's when I find the desires to do things more meaningful with the time I have less of, or I find myself looking more closely at my life.
So yes... two days ago I was up at 5, then I went to school went to the lab and at 7:30 PM started painting the interior of a house until 6:30 AM. I took a 90 minute nap before returning to school, and after I left the lab that night I went painting again. It's 3:30 AM and I'm physically exhausted. But mentally, I'm needing to for a long hard jog.
Within these two days with a 90 minute nap between, I talked to a girl who had went through a very similar breakup to my painful one in September (unapologetic ownership of ex-girlfriend porn and all!). Only she broke up with her ex in the last 2 days... so a lot of the negative feelings were much more fresh. I talked with her about many things as we painted together on our summer job: As modern women we do not want to sacrifice for others and follow them by sacrificing our career, but our careers will have a very rigorous road until quite long after I'd rather meet someone to spend the rest of my life around (I.E. Until I have tenure somewhere, I can have no solid ties to any physical location... and so usually a physical person, who may have contradicting career needs.) But is not-being single really a goal of mine? I feel like I am happier when when I'm half of a set rather than a autonomous unit, but this hasn't always been the case. In fact, I think I'm entering a stage where this may flip around again... where I may actually be quite content with the freedoms of being single. Last time I was much more elated about these freedoms, but now... well... I'm still very content with the ability to spend time with as many friends (who are mostly all male) as I want anytime I want to, or to spend my time and money 100 percent as I want to do so.
So in my state of new found contentment, I did something that up until this point I found too painful to do: read through the breakup emails between me and that particular ex. I think, based on previous experiences... that these things are worth remembering, worth learning from, and there is no fear or pain that shouldn't be eventually faced. They affect me... still... far more than I would admit if I wasn't making a conscious effort to display my weaknesses without fear. For that was one thing I never did in these emails.
I remembered being in pain and stifling the urges to say I love you and cry and beg to take back all the logic of the situation. There was no hint of that in my words: They sounded like hate... they were hate... I should have said that he hurt me incredibly when he forgot me so quickly, to the point where I needed to back away for a while. I should have said I felt he didn't understand me at all, that I loved him... that though a relationship status needed to change but the core of what I valued him for would never change. But to have said that would have put out more risk, would have taken more strength... more faith... than I guess I had at that point.
In my letters I found I had lashed out at him with everything I had, for no apparent purpose other than to make him feel pain. I spoke out of emotion rather than logic or love. I told him I felt like a “temporary plug in an otherwise meaningless existence” and constantly listed how he failed me... how he hurt me... I wanted to be hated, because i wanted him to feel some passion in regards to me rather than nothing at all, after all the passion that I thought would remain constant even after a breakup.
I expected to recognize myself and my motivations, despite the fact that I've went through a lot of change between now and last fall. I introduce myself these days less as a naturalist and more of a spiritual, eco-friendly pacifist. This new me, which is an identity which has made peace with a past and a future that could never yet intersect, does not believe in accidents, does not act or speak to intentionally hurt other living things, does not eat meat except for fish for ethical as well as practical reasons and walks more gently in the world around her. She listens, she gives... and she believes again in things like destiny as well as probability and predictability that comes with natural science.
Damn.... but that wasn't the girl I met in my own correspondence.
Also, reading between the lines again on his end, I still saw the flashing red signs of someone who did not understand me, but I also saw someone who, despite replacing me in 2 weeks... was showing a lot more general consideration than I did in what he didn't say in return. His words were not said to hurt me, they just were. I had no reason to hate him... and a lot more reason to well, dislike myself.
I forgot who I was... the girl who started dating Mark was defined by 2 contradictory impulses: that of spirituality and the sense of destiny, and that of a noted blindspot in my spiritual eye: Mark, the scientist... someone who I admired intensely who could not begin to comprehend let alone empathize with these beliefs, who I loved all the more because of them. But being in a relationship where I couldn't really talk about what was most central to me without being consistently misunderstood... it faded, it changed: some for the worst, but mostly for the better. I was a hypocrite: my actions and my philosophies did not match, because I no longer knew what I believed or who I wanted to be.
I could have been a lot more like Doug after he went through his recent breakup. Although he and his ex also realized they did not understand each other and had grave religious differences, he didn't expound to me on all the places where she had failed him or misunderstood him... Yet I know he was very hurt by these things, and still is to some extent. Yet he acknowledges nothing owed to him that was denied... no false promises withheld... just hurt... and love... and the need for time to reconcile the two. He admitted to weakness: feeling for an ex beyond the logical conclusion that it was time to part, and in doing so showed much more maturity, yet all of the passion I felt I would have to have let go in order to rightfully say “well, it just didn't work out”. To the outside observer it may seem like Doug didn't have these passions very deep... He doesn't talk about it unless prodded... he doesn't talk about a lot of things unless prodded. But I've come to realize there is a great deal of passion he is better at hiding, yet not quite so deceptively as I do... He passes it off as nothing at all, I try to convey unfulfilled passion in my interactions to a sense of being cheated... owed... at worse a reason for hate.
So I've learned from Doug recently. I've learned from a lot of people who never intended to teach me. I've learned from Roberto, who in a lot of ways, taught me to love more deeply and forgive more readily... To live for the moment and take the good while overlooking the bad... All things will end, and most things are uniquely beautiful because of it. I've also learned ironically, from Nemesis... whose personality traits I had held against him in the not-so-distant past were the very ones I found glaring at me in the email. And y'know, he's not so callous and mercurial a guy as I keep wanting to think... even though I would feel very humbled to tell him so. Weird as it sounds... that is a friendship that seems to exist only because he believes I do not value him very much at all.
I've learned from Tali... who managed to see through me and my words during that period of time to this one... who can be 14 and 40 oftentimes at the same time: counselor and counseled... it's strange, I can't explain it... She's a lot of things that can't be, and therefore it is wonderful to be around her.
and Jesse... who has the balls to tell me when I'm being a bitch yet honor me in others... Jesse's not afraid to tell me how he feels, and yet he is... much like me. But we've both vowed a long time ago never to let the shit we say or don't say interfere with what actually is... a friendship where two very fucked up individuals walk fairly parallel roads towards slightly less-fucked up... or a lot less fucked up. Yet all the same time, we know where we've been, we feel the weight of it... and we are not afraid to let eachother see the most abused and insane aspects of our emotions and philosophies we live by... Jesse is there when no one else is... even when we don't know how to fix eachother... we try.
I've learned from Colin, who was and is a much better friend and human being than I've ever given him credit for. In fact, I don't know what I'm going to do in Ithaca without him. I used to think it was a vague need for human contact and the convenience of having Colin nearby that made me appreciate him more than I had when we knew eachother back in Ithaca, but I need his bullshit.... I need the jokes... even when they are disgusting or insulting... especially then... cause not everyone can see beyond the message to to the motive, often very contradictory to the words themselves. For a long time... I couldn't. Colin is one of the most loyal and dedicated friends I have.
And if I didn't go through that breakup back then, I would never have appreciated all of these people to the extent I do now... even people who have been in my life for quite some time I value much much more. couple of the people I have found myself loving in my spare time wouldn't be in my life whatsoever if I had not had went through the events that I did. As strange as it may sound, I feel more loved and complete after loosing what was the most fulfilling romantic relationship in my life, than within it.... where I was contentedly trapped to a persona that I hoped would fit Mark's life, but just wasn't me... It could never fit Marks or anyone else's life in that current form... I needed to break down and rebuild... yet again.
I still feel like I have some growing up to do before I can be in a serious committed relationship.
Less than six months ago I was a crying, shaking wreck who needed a reason to live consistently. I functioned in autopilot holding up a strong image as much as possible to all who I didn't trust, which was the greater bulk of the world. I kept at bay some pretty masochistic thoughts by reminding myself of family duty.. that my father was happy only cause he thought I was doing so well with my life... and when I wasn't... My friend Ivy cared enough to call me to read me Ann LaMott at 3 in the morning... Ryan cared enough to come up with a paragraph of alliteration terms for fuckbuddy while offering his hit-man services... I couldn't make it a waste of his effort.
Things have changed a lot since then. Tonight I acknowledge that I have great friends, and head to grad school with a little bit of a sense of lack of motivation, but without fear of the things which even a couple months ago kept me awake all night. All of my friends have given me my faith back, both in myself, God and in other people... and to some extent, so did Mark... though I don't know how I could ever say all I'd like to say to him misunderstanding my motives...
With all of these people I have praises and apologies... but mostly valuable secrets of very intense emotions that I feel could never be reciprocated, because in most cases... such things have never been: the most intense love I have received from others has always be romance or parental love, and always been powerful, wonderful inconsistent, transient, and terrible. What was stable was much smaller... much less passionate... with much less risk.
So this is how I present myself to those I love. The truth is in many cases the total amount I feel for my non-romantic relationships approaches if not eventually surpasses the romantic ones... (which annoyed and/or the ex a lot... one of the many misunderstandings.)But I keep fearing and knowing that no one will ever understand this, not fully... and they will never reciprocate... I care more than is healthy in so many cases. I never tell the people around me why I find them amazing if I could even translate it into logical reasoning. So I say nothing: For fear of misunderstanding, ridicule... or just not having it returned.
To tell people of these emotions would admit weakness... to do so would not fit the image of the girl with dirt under her fingernails, science in her head, smut in her mouth and and swords on her wall. I like to present myself as independent, strong... disrespectful.. quirky... and unrepentant. If you don't get me... then so fucking what.
But this is not usually what's in my head.... I need you, I miss you... I'm constantly in love... constantly looking for and needing a precious little that would seem very insignificant to most... but is oxygen to me. That hug... that joke... just seeing you at all for any reason and having any degree of trust bestowed to me.... anything that is uniquely ours. Perhaps I could tell you all individually that I love you, that in my own way, I am probably in love with you... but I don't really know as I can. I can type this only because I'm tired and I don't have to make eye contact with any of you when I hit the publish button... in fact... a lot of you who I do love and empathize with so intensely probably won't read this anyways.... It's safe.
But I care. I'd give you anything you need that I knew you would accept from me without resentment, I pray for you... wordlessly...even when you don't believe it's effective, but I feel you... rejoice with you, cry over you... and have some way of seeing you as entirely unique to this world... irreplaceable in my life... It's not a role you fill that another character might take up... you've shaped me, and you're fantastically wonderful to the utmost sappy and emo degree ever. Shakespeare would probably shudder at some of the fluffy prose that wanders the corners of my mind in regards to my friends....
I write about you but only when you're not looking... and when you are looking, well... then I'm probably downplay it... a lot... to keep things safe for me mentally. I will force myself to see you not as divine but as human: to see the faults first. I'm antagonistic or just quiet. The best I can probably offer you when you need it is a beer... or a ear to listen... but you probably wouldn't want it anyways... Yet I want to give you so much more you and keep safe all that you offer back... but that's all sublime, because on the surface I offer you bullshit, and all the while, I hope your not buying a minute of it.
And I need sleep... And to send this beforehand. Because if I read over this after a good night sleep to regain my composure... I'm not sure I'll post this... I'm sure I sound like a whiny teenage hippie Dante who needs mood stabilizers.... or something... something very emo...
yes... sleep.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Frustrated in an Art Museum…
As a kid I saw an episode of Rocky and Bulwinkle where Bulwinkle becomes a famous artist by whitewashing canvases. I thought of that when I came across a dappled white canvas in an art museum last weekend: different shades of white mind you, but white. By the side of that painting was a paragraph on the artist’s inspiration, which read something like “I was walking down the hallway one time when I realized I didn’t understand myself walking down the hallway. It made me realize how little we truly do not understand the world around us”.
I’d agree that people do not understand the simpler things they do, and increased awareness of one’s self and surroundings is meaningful… but how is that message communicated through dappled shades of white? Other than perhaps a Rorschach-style interpretation where I present my own interpretation into ambiguous stimuli, this painting has no meaning. It isn’t even beautiful…. Art is a controversial term, and I’m sure even artists argue about its definition. Nemesis, who is far more artistic-minded than me, tells me that art is an experience: it needs not be beautiful or powerful or anything of the sort… it just has to be. Personally I think this person’s newly acquired master’s degree was a waste of Daddy’s money.
I’m not critical of all art: there were some beautiful or meaningful things in that museum which I found inexplicably awesome. I still find myself overcome with creative urges on a regular basis. Mine find their peace writing things I hope to put together for a book… which appear on this blog. Previously in life, especially in adolescence, I found myself writing journal after journal of poetry: fueled by teenage angst and a twisted childhood. The art I found myself painting and drawing my senior year of high school was anything but beautiful… or at least it was a angsty, violent sort of beautiful. Among my belongings is a painting I’ve been putting off finishing from that time for 7 years now: Amid an ugly dry forest are trees with human faces and anthropomorphic branches, dripping red from the crevices that should be their eyes, with yellow X’s marking them to be cut down. In the middle of the forest runs a river in complementary pastels… the trees near it coming alive, becoming human. By the edge of the river is a dryad-like girl who mostly human, holding out her arm to a male figure within the river. It unclear if she is pulling him out or he is pulling her in.
Yeah, my art scared people back then, as did my writing. But a lot has changed since then. Now I sort of look at living things, and especially the brain, with the sort of mystery I once looked at a blank page of paper. Have I just become needlessly critical of artistic things since that time?
My friend Lauren, who was the reason I was in this museum did a 2 dimensional sculpture in tree-like form, with prints of paper leaves coming off of it that the passer-bys were supposed to take with them. The leaves, beyond being beautiful prints themselves, had a link to her website, which promotes sustainability and preserving the environment. Beside the recycled-paper plumage was a bulletin board where the observers were asked to write down how they feel they interact with their environment. Lauren felt that if she let other people write out how they feel about their environment themselves, it would have a much greater impact then if she preached to them. Beside the bulletin board was a pamphlet that told the story of a fictious rioter of environmental rights, accidentally shot and eventually arrested for her passionate attempts to protect the world around her.
Lauren had something to say with her art: and I’d say it was very well communicated. The strange thing was that though many specific references were made to particular artists in the small graduating class through anecdotes, awards and even a blues song composed for the occasion, Lauren’s work went unnoticed and unheralded. I can’t answer why… perhaps her message is one her audience members are not yet ready to deliver to themselves.
Her school was a very elite school… or one could also argue an elitist school. I walked through the woods to a breakfast for the graduates friends and families, surrounded by sculptures and fountains and vibrant Michigan forest… which by Michigan standards, looked and smelled much more forest-like. It was gorgeous. The house where the breakfast was held contained many beautiful tapestries, reliefs and carvings, and plenty of antique chairs with a little sign saying they were not for sitting in. Only in the library where there were some plain plastic chairs used for their intended purposes, and I looked around a room filled with priceless antiques.
At the end of the day I felt very at-odds with myself. The days beforehand I found myself reading a couple new books and thinking a few different ways. Soon I’ll be away at a more prestigious university myself where I will be expected to become more cultured, more dignified… to eat at sleazy diners less and quit using words like cock and boobs in common conversations. Beyond that, most people around me will dress different, drive nicer cars… and though I might seek to keep those things the same, I can’t escape the fact that Cornell will afford me two rare luxuries: time and money. This may seem strange for someone going into an Ivy League Grad school… but trust me… those guys have weekends... especially for someone who is used to taking honors classes full time and working as much as possible to live off half the stipend I will receive at Cornell.
By my own standards, I will be rich in so many ways. But what do I want to do with an excess of time and money that I lived so well without? The money I can easily sink into my student loan debt… which will still exist even after grad school. But should all of that be designated to that purpose? Can I afford a little art and culture? Or are those just false gods distracting me from the life of service and simplicity I’d value so much more?
I guess perhaps I can be a different sort of cocky elitist… one who thinks she is better than elitists because I don’t drive a fancy car or appreciate drinking straws hanging from the wall, and the light colored calcium deposits on the floor on a light-colored background. I do hold that a simple life: one which consumes less and leaves time for the things that usually get pushed until last, is more admirable than spending money to fit in with those accustomed to spending more money. But what I can’t answer to myself is whether reserving hatred towards pieces in an art museum is righteous anger, or contrary to more noble purposes.
This a much more scattered entry… and I apologize… but unfortunately for right now, my thoughts are scattered.
I’d agree that people do not understand the simpler things they do, and increased awareness of one’s self and surroundings is meaningful… but how is that message communicated through dappled shades of white? Other than perhaps a Rorschach-style interpretation where I present my own interpretation into ambiguous stimuli, this painting has no meaning. It isn’t even beautiful…. Art is a controversial term, and I’m sure even artists argue about its definition. Nemesis, who is far more artistic-minded than me, tells me that art is an experience: it needs not be beautiful or powerful or anything of the sort… it just has to be. Personally I think this person’s newly acquired master’s degree was a waste of Daddy’s money.
I’m not critical of all art: there were some beautiful or meaningful things in that museum which I found inexplicably awesome. I still find myself overcome with creative urges on a regular basis. Mine find their peace writing things I hope to put together for a book… which appear on this blog. Previously in life, especially in adolescence, I found myself writing journal after journal of poetry: fueled by teenage angst and a twisted childhood. The art I found myself painting and drawing my senior year of high school was anything but beautiful… or at least it was a angsty, violent sort of beautiful. Among my belongings is a painting I’ve been putting off finishing from that time for 7 years now: Amid an ugly dry forest are trees with human faces and anthropomorphic branches, dripping red from the crevices that should be their eyes, with yellow X’s marking them to be cut down. In the middle of the forest runs a river in complementary pastels… the trees near it coming alive, becoming human. By the edge of the river is a dryad-like girl who mostly human, holding out her arm to a male figure within the river. It unclear if she is pulling him out or he is pulling her in.
Yeah, my art scared people back then, as did my writing. But a lot has changed since then. Now I sort of look at living things, and especially the brain, with the sort of mystery I once looked at a blank page of paper. Have I just become needlessly critical of artistic things since that time?
My friend Lauren, who was the reason I was in this museum did a 2 dimensional sculpture in tree-like form, with prints of paper leaves coming off of it that the passer-bys were supposed to take with them. The leaves, beyond being beautiful prints themselves, had a link to her website, which promotes sustainability and preserving the environment. Beside the recycled-paper plumage was a bulletin board where the observers were asked to write down how they feel they interact with their environment. Lauren felt that if she let other people write out how they feel about their environment themselves, it would have a much greater impact then if she preached to them. Beside the bulletin board was a pamphlet that told the story of a fictious rioter of environmental rights, accidentally shot and eventually arrested for her passionate attempts to protect the world around her.
Lauren had something to say with her art: and I’d say it was very well communicated. The strange thing was that though many specific references were made to particular artists in the small graduating class through anecdotes, awards and even a blues song composed for the occasion, Lauren’s work went unnoticed and unheralded. I can’t answer why… perhaps her message is one her audience members are not yet ready to deliver to themselves.
Her school was a very elite school… or one could also argue an elitist school. I walked through the woods to a breakfast for the graduates friends and families, surrounded by sculptures and fountains and vibrant Michigan forest… which by Michigan standards, looked and smelled much more forest-like. It was gorgeous. The house where the breakfast was held contained many beautiful tapestries, reliefs and carvings, and plenty of antique chairs with a little sign saying they were not for sitting in. Only in the library where there were some plain plastic chairs used for their intended purposes, and I looked around a room filled with priceless antiques.
At the end of the day I felt very at-odds with myself. The days beforehand I found myself reading a couple new books and thinking a few different ways. Soon I’ll be away at a more prestigious university myself where I will be expected to become more cultured, more dignified… to eat at sleazy diners less and quit using words like cock and boobs in common conversations. Beyond that, most people around me will dress different, drive nicer cars… and though I might seek to keep those things the same, I can’t escape the fact that Cornell will afford me two rare luxuries: time and money. This may seem strange for someone going into an Ivy League Grad school… but trust me… those guys have weekends... especially for someone who is used to taking honors classes full time and working as much as possible to live off half the stipend I will receive at Cornell.
By my own standards, I will be rich in so many ways. But what do I want to do with an excess of time and money that I lived so well without? The money I can easily sink into my student loan debt… which will still exist even after grad school. But should all of that be designated to that purpose? Can I afford a little art and culture? Or are those just false gods distracting me from the life of service and simplicity I’d value so much more?
I guess perhaps I can be a different sort of cocky elitist… one who thinks she is better than elitists because I don’t drive a fancy car or appreciate drinking straws hanging from the wall, and the light colored calcium deposits on the floor on a light-colored background. I do hold that a simple life: one which consumes less and leaves time for the things that usually get pushed until last, is more admirable than spending money to fit in with those accustomed to spending more money. But what I can’t answer to myself is whether reserving hatred towards pieces in an art museum is righteous anger, or contrary to more noble purposes.
This a much more scattered entry… and I apologize… but unfortunately for right now, my thoughts are scattered.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Religion and Science.
Tali sent me a few papers on the scientific basis of religious experiences... This was my reply, which will be similar to any other conversations I have with people who don't believe in spirituality who read my last post, so hence I'm posting my reply:
"Thanks I'll read through them =)
I have a feeling though that like any good scientific paper, they will attempt to explain spirituality it terms of only naturalistic variables... and well they should, for thats what science is. I don't like it when science tries to do anything but.
However, I don't believe science can really explain it... If it were hallucinations or the product of an overactive imagination, I wouldn't expect to at times predict the future, or meet people who know minute details about my life when I never met them... or who can relate to me the intimate details of a dream I have or the characters within it - (like the red haired asian chic in leather armor and a sword... seeing me and starting off a story with that character in it moves beyond the realm of chance or generalities). If I could have ruled out my experiences to halluncinations or imagination... I would have done so long ago.
It would have saved me a lot of breakups... and friendships... My problems with Mark started coming out when he met a friend of mine who claimed to be very "spiritual" and Mark had a dream that freaked him out a bit... but I don't really want to talk about that, and I know for a fact he does even less...
All people, including me, like to understand the world around them. It sucks to realize there are limitations..."
"Thanks I'll read through them =)
I have a feeling though that like any good scientific paper, they will attempt to explain spirituality it terms of only naturalistic variables... and well they should, for thats what science is. I don't like it when science tries to do anything but.
However, I don't believe science can really explain it... If it were hallucinations or the product of an overactive imagination, I wouldn't expect to at times predict the future, or meet people who know minute details about my life when I never met them... or who can relate to me the intimate details of a dream I have or the characters within it - (like the red haired asian chic in leather armor and a sword... seeing me and starting off a story with that character in it moves beyond the realm of chance or generalities). If I could have ruled out my experiences to halluncinations or imagination... I would have done so long ago.
It would have saved me a lot of breakups... and friendships... My problems with Mark started coming out when he met a friend of mine who claimed to be very "spiritual" and Mark had a dream that freaked him out a bit... but I don't really want to talk about that, and I know for a fact he does even less...
All people, including me, like to understand the world around them. It sucks to realize there are limitations..."
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Back on the Path
On the Path Again:
There’s nothing so freeing as having everything you need to survive on your back, in such a way as it’s comfortable to walk. I need no car, no house… no purse nor anything else in my hands. All I have is the path before me, and a fork in a road.
I take the path that looks better, for whatever implicit reason I don’t know. I have never been here before, and aside from finding my way back sometime in the next couple days I don’t think I plan to be again. The farther I am from civilization right now, the better: I need to be alone. Yet all at the same time I feel a sense of belonging that I haven’t felt in quite some time before this point… and in other ways, I know exactly where I’m going, and I know exactly why.
I walk for an hour or so, trying a couple different deer paths off of the main track looking for clearing big enough to place my tent. Eventually I find one where I feel I should, and with it comes a fallen tree for a chair and another with a tree nearby perfect for sitting on a ways away from camp. It reminds me of the “butt-shaped” log that used to exist at a favorite spot over the river in the forest where I’d used to go to be alone in Ithaca. The log was very comfortable, and my friend Aran had noted that this log was a reason he believed in god.
The bastard broke the log later, but I’ll ignore the spiritual implications =).
In the woods I sit and drink some water before setting up the tent, the fire… and going off to do what I came for: to clear my mind of weeks and in some ways months of psychological and emotional baggage, to meditate, and to hopefully pray and get a sense of purpose that I have been otherwise lacking. I used to live by the adage : “the soul has a path it must follow and it will languish if it looses it’s way.” The problem was, I still found this maxim to be true even when I doubted if I had a soul. I found myself with no reason to wake up in the morning. I was depressed, and sooner or later my friends began to notice… I was not who I used to be, I was not psychologically healthy, and I had no one to distract me from my problems anymore. This was good.
I prayed. For the most part this process stopped working a long time ago… the last time I got it to “work” there was another person with me. Granted he was an agnostic, but that was what it took for me to find a friend who I respected and was respected by enough to find praying with them not an awkward prospect. Christians I’d pray with would have formats they followed… they might expect to use words and hear nothing back… even the prospect of using words: whether scripted or not, rubbed me the wrong way. I pray to set things right, and mostly to listen. I figure anything I could say is already understood: what is said is only to hear myself reach my own conclusions.
I had a hawk flying above trying to figure out what the out of place looking red and black thing was in her forest (my tent)… a crow which did the same, and a lot of wind through the trees asking me why I was there. It wasn’t my woods: I was a stranger here. But it was enough to clear my mind, and there enough of a sense of community for me to move beyond that. In the ends I felt as if the woods accepted my presence.
I did a lot of sleeping and a lot of dreaming… about the stressors related to my father, to my school… and to the people I miss in my life and will continue to do so indefinitely. I was given new ways to see these people and others: insights into what I could do in the near future, and what I couldn’t. I knew where I belonged, and I had the strength to begin walking in that direction regardless of the consequences.
Yes, prayer worked. Unfortunately for me, I forgot to bring a pen, for now I can only hold so many answers in my mind, and I received many. But when I eventually hiked out of there the following day, taking some necessary detours in the process… I left with a new sense of direction… peace… purpose. I left with the method to reach those answers again… I am again on the path.
Before I left for the woods I had had lunch with an old friend I hadn’t seen in almost a year. We were both much more depressed than we used to be, and when we talked… we both admitted we were a little out of phase with our respective feelings of purpose in life. I told her I had concluded recently I was no longer psychologically healthy… and that this was something I needed to fix. However I didn’t feel that medication or psychologists would be able to help me. What had worked in the past was spirituality, or more correctly, God in one name or another had been the saving force for me throughout much worse things in life. It wasn’t just a warm fuzzy feeling that everything would be alright: it came in dreams, warnings, signs… things I don’t really feel the need to elaborate on. It’s enough to say a psychologist couldn’t give that back to me. If anything… they wouldn’t believe me. These are not safe beliefs to have.
I did not have that faith any longer, these signs and communications had for the most part stopped. I did not find people I could relate to spiritually anymore… and between that and other things, it was a very lonely period of life. I felt that if what I experienced is real, there should be more people like me.
“Perhaps you are not ready to meet those people. When you are ready, they will be there.” Although my friend’s words had added a “perhaps” to her statement, there was only certainly in her gaze. And she was right… I wasn’t ready… but I’m starting to be. My friend walked her own path, and though the details were a bit different, we found that we understood each other very well that day. It wasn’t out of the water to assume we could be that kind of an ally for each other, if we found our way back to our respective paths.
I don’t know what my religion is. I don’t even know if what I hold on to can be defined by the word religion, or if I need to define it. I have experienced things which are not explainable with purely naturalistic definitions all my life: I can ignore them and they will go away… but only for a while. And in those instances I find myself empty… and worse yet… losing my reason to wake up in the morning, my very life and sanity. I cannot live without spirituality, as much as I’d like to live in a word I understand: I live in a world where things happen that I cannot explain and I cannot control. I can walk with these things, or I can close my eyes or walk against them.
Before my coincidences and experiences were interpreted by way of Christianity… but among Christ’s followers I am constantly on the outside looking in… and always has been: either exalted or rejected for experiences I have had and their implications. There are some things in Christianity I like very much, especially the early teachings: “ lead a quiet life…. work with your hands… be dependent on no one, ” (1 Thess 4). I resonate with the teachings of Christ, Paul, and to some degree Peter. I like the stories of Elijah, I like Genesis… but do not feel the need to interpret it as literally as many Christians in this country do. I like Revelation… and also feel that by definition, prophecy is non-literal. I find the literal and linear interpretations of that book by the average American Christian most dangerous of all… and yes… I mean dangerous.
I saw a T-shirt once that said “Jesus, save me from your followers”. I agree wholeheartedly… I’ve met many who would rather spend their money going to a foreign country to go to some school to teach them how to worship or pray better… but they aren’t doing anything useful. Many churches and group kill more then they save: they aren’t those who feed and clothe the poor or visit those in prison. That was the message of Christ… he didn’t say to anyone “I wasn’t going to church, and you invited me” he said “I was hungry and you gave me something to eat.” Paul and Peter both refused alms for their teachings in most cases, and Christ’s early followers only accepted lodging and food. Yet today this is the standard way in which Christian missionaries live so they can bring bibles to the starving children of… wherever.
I’ve met some missionaries who aren’t like this too… and I do believe that one needs to treat the whole person. The fact that we need food and shelter isn’t what makes us human, and I believe spirituality is: (even if on a particularly bad day I believe humans made God up). So when I list my grievances know that I do know and respect exceptions to every rule I set. Hence I stuck around Christianity for a while, hoping to find my exceptions… and to be one: to reform it from within.
I was very lonely within that religion: the friends I made who could “understand” me really couldn’t... Many of them confused me more than anything else. Among those who have claimed to “hear from God” are many who just want attention, or many who feel that to hear from God makes you as inerrant as they believe the bible is. I have problems with both assumptions. The bible came to us through human hands, and it contains human errors… to what degree? That is the question… I found many when I looked at it very closely… I’m afraid I can only take it so far. Fortunately I believe I don’t really need to take it as literally true. What is true will prove itself.
This will be my own path… and the details of it will remain my own, at least for now. I used to think I’d need some kind of a “master” or at least someone who was a few steps ahead going in the same direction. I’ve yet to meet anyone who fits this role, at least for very long. I meet people, and with them come a lesson: but only one at a time for me to assimilate.
Perhaps that’s only because I can only handle one lesson at a time…
Yet I do believe my friend was right. I HAVE met people like me, And far beyond what I’ve experienced in fact. Granted most of them are in Asia, but not all. I’ve meeting many more people who experience spirituality in a different way, but may lead to similar hypotheses about the spiritual world. I know none now may just mean that I need to be alone for this next phase of development. I am ok with that… because prayer worked, and the “divine coincidences” are back.
I’m being general… because this is a general blog, and some of my readers may not believe in spirituality at all. I have another where I go into more spiritual details, but that one is more protected from anyone on the internet who can stumble across it. If you want access to it, or want to hear more details… let me know.
There’s nothing so freeing as having everything you need to survive on your back, in such a way as it’s comfortable to walk. I need no car, no house… no purse nor anything else in my hands. All I have is the path before me, and a fork in a road.
I take the path that looks better, for whatever implicit reason I don’t know. I have never been here before, and aside from finding my way back sometime in the next couple days I don’t think I plan to be again. The farther I am from civilization right now, the better: I need to be alone. Yet all at the same time I feel a sense of belonging that I haven’t felt in quite some time before this point… and in other ways, I know exactly where I’m going, and I know exactly why.
I walk for an hour or so, trying a couple different deer paths off of the main track looking for clearing big enough to place my tent. Eventually I find one where I feel I should, and with it comes a fallen tree for a chair and another with a tree nearby perfect for sitting on a ways away from camp. It reminds me of the “butt-shaped” log that used to exist at a favorite spot over the river in the forest where I’d used to go to be alone in Ithaca. The log was very comfortable, and my friend Aran had noted that this log was a reason he believed in god.
The bastard broke the log later, but I’ll ignore the spiritual implications =).
In the woods I sit and drink some water before setting up the tent, the fire… and going off to do what I came for: to clear my mind of weeks and in some ways months of psychological and emotional baggage, to meditate, and to hopefully pray and get a sense of purpose that I have been otherwise lacking. I used to live by the adage : “the soul has a path it must follow and it will languish if it looses it’s way.” The problem was, I still found this maxim to be true even when I doubted if I had a soul. I found myself with no reason to wake up in the morning. I was depressed, and sooner or later my friends began to notice… I was not who I used to be, I was not psychologically healthy, and I had no one to distract me from my problems anymore. This was good.
I prayed. For the most part this process stopped working a long time ago… the last time I got it to “work” there was another person with me. Granted he was an agnostic, but that was what it took for me to find a friend who I respected and was respected by enough to find praying with them not an awkward prospect. Christians I’d pray with would have formats they followed… they might expect to use words and hear nothing back… even the prospect of using words: whether scripted or not, rubbed me the wrong way. I pray to set things right, and mostly to listen. I figure anything I could say is already understood: what is said is only to hear myself reach my own conclusions.
I had a hawk flying above trying to figure out what the out of place looking red and black thing was in her forest (my tent)… a crow which did the same, and a lot of wind through the trees asking me why I was there. It wasn’t my woods: I was a stranger here. But it was enough to clear my mind, and there enough of a sense of community for me to move beyond that. In the ends I felt as if the woods accepted my presence.
I did a lot of sleeping and a lot of dreaming… about the stressors related to my father, to my school… and to the people I miss in my life and will continue to do so indefinitely. I was given new ways to see these people and others: insights into what I could do in the near future, and what I couldn’t. I knew where I belonged, and I had the strength to begin walking in that direction regardless of the consequences.
Yes, prayer worked. Unfortunately for me, I forgot to bring a pen, for now I can only hold so many answers in my mind, and I received many. But when I eventually hiked out of there the following day, taking some necessary detours in the process… I left with a new sense of direction… peace… purpose. I left with the method to reach those answers again… I am again on the path.
Before I left for the woods I had had lunch with an old friend I hadn’t seen in almost a year. We were both much more depressed than we used to be, and when we talked… we both admitted we were a little out of phase with our respective feelings of purpose in life. I told her I had concluded recently I was no longer psychologically healthy… and that this was something I needed to fix. However I didn’t feel that medication or psychologists would be able to help me. What had worked in the past was spirituality, or more correctly, God in one name or another had been the saving force for me throughout much worse things in life. It wasn’t just a warm fuzzy feeling that everything would be alright: it came in dreams, warnings, signs… things I don’t really feel the need to elaborate on. It’s enough to say a psychologist couldn’t give that back to me. If anything… they wouldn’t believe me. These are not safe beliefs to have.
I did not have that faith any longer, these signs and communications had for the most part stopped. I did not find people I could relate to spiritually anymore… and between that and other things, it was a very lonely period of life. I felt that if what I experienced is real, there should be more people like me.
“Perhaps you are not ready to meet those people. When you are ready, they will be there.” Although my friend’s words had added a “perhaps” to her statement, there was only certainly in her gaze. And she was right… I wasn’t ready… but I’m starting to be. My friend walked her own path, and though the details were a bit different, we found that we understood each other very well that day. It wasn’t out of the water to assume we could be that kind of an ally for each other, if we found our way back to our respective paths.
I don’t know what my religion is. I don’t even know if what I hold on to can be defined by the word religion, or if I need to define it. I have experienced things which are not explainable with purely naturalistic definitions all my life: I can ignore them and they will go away… but only for a while. And in those instances I find myself empty… and worse yet… losing my reason to wake up in the morning, my very life and sanity. I cannot live without spirituality, as much as I’d like to live in a word I understand: I live in a world where things happen that I cannot explain and I cannot control. I can walk with these things, or I can close my eyes or walk against them.
Before my coincidences and experiences were interpreted by way of Christianity… but among Christ’s followers I am constantly on the outside looking in… and always has been: either exalted or rejected for experiences I have had and their implications. There are some things in Christianity I like very much, especially the early teachings: “ lead a quiet life…. work with your hands… be dependent on no one, ” (1 Thess 4). I resonate with the teachings of Christ, Paul, and to some degree Peter. I like the stories of Elijah, I like Genesis… but do not feel the need to interpret it as literally as many Christians in this country do. I like Revelation… and also feel that by definition, prophecy is non-literal. I find the literal and linear interpretations of that book by the average American Christian most dangerous of all… and yes… I mean dangerous.
I saw a T-shirt once that said “Jesus, save me from your followers”. I agree wholeheartedly… I’ve met many who would rather spend their money going to a foreign country to go to some school to teach them how to worship or pray better… but they aren’t doing anything useful. Many churches and group kill more then they save: they aren’t those who feed and clothe the poor or visit those in prison. That was the message of Christ… he didn’t say to anyone “I wasn’t going to church, and you invited me” he said “I was hungry and you gave me something to eat.” Paul and Peter both refused alms for their teachings in most cases, and Christ’s early followers only accepted lodging and food. Yet today this is the standard way in which Christian missionaries live so they can bring bibles to the starving children of… wherever.
I’ve met some missionaries who aren’t like this too… and I do believe that one needs to treat the whole person. The fact that we need food and shelter isn’t what makes us human, and I believe spirituality is: (even if on a particularly bad day I believe humans made God up). So when I list my grievances know that I do know and respect exceptions to every rule I set. Hence I stuck around Christianity for a while, hoping to find my exceptions… and to be one: to reform it from within.
I was very lonely within that religion: the friends I made who could “understand” me really couldn’t... Many of them confused me more than anything else. Among those who have claimed to “hear from God” are many who just want attention, or many who feel that to hear from God makes you as inerrant as they believe the bible is. I have problems with both assumptions. The bible came to us through human hands, and it contains human errors… to what degree? That is the question… I found many when I looked at it very closely… I’m afraid I can only take it so far. Fortunately I believe I don’t really need to take it as literally true. What is true will prove itself.
This will be my own path… and the details of it will remain my own, at least for now. I used to think I’d need some kind of a “master” or at least someone who was a few steps ahead going in the same direction. I’ve yet to meet anyone who fits this role, at least for very long. I meet people, and with them come a lesson: but only one at a time for me to assimilate.
Perhaps that’s only because I can only handle one lesson at a time…
Yet I do believe my friend was right. I HAVE met people like me, And far beyond what I’ve experienced in fact. Granted most of them are in Asia, but not all. I’ve meeting many more people who experience spirituality in a different way, but may lead to similar hypotheses about the spiritual world. I know none now may just mean that I need to be alone for this next phase of development. I am ok with that… because prayer worked, and the “divine coincidences” are back.
I’m being general… because this is a general blog, and some of my readers may not believe in spirituality at all. I have another where I go into more spiritual details, but that one is more protected from anyone on the internet who can stumble across it. If you want access to it, or want to hear more details… let me know.
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