It's been of late a tough row to hoe here in the People's Republic of Gumbolia. Feeling a bit like being trapped in the northeast quarter of a tropical storm. My general outlook has been, shall we say, less than sunny.
I was challenged recently to find at least one good thing about my day. Just one, as an exercise in looking for the good in life.
Tonight, I stood at my kitchen windows, rubbing my face with my hands in an attempt to wipe away the anxiety. I looked between my fingers, outside, where a smudge of pale bluish-purple caught my eye. I looked closer.
The lilacs are in bloom. I think I actually smiled.
11 April 2012
08 April 2012
Sunday Meditation #20: Weeds Grow Again...As Do Souls
Some thoughts for this Easter Sunday, born in dirt and grown in pensive light...
I feel unqualified to speak in depth of the significance of Easter. Others know more, and have said it better. The commentary is too well known for me to illuminate it further. Instead I will speak of rebirth on a small scale, the kind to be found in weeds and dirt, flowers and sunlight, on a rather ordinary Saturday.
My mind had been caroming about, never sitting still. A shame, really, on such a beautiful day. I flitted from chore to chore. I folded laundry, swept floors, caulked tubs. Yard work beckoned for the second day in a row. I finally could not take the confines of my house any longer and fled to the less claustrophobic setting of my backyard. It was white gold sunlight under a cerulean sky. The lessening of tension in my shoulders and gut were immediate, even as I drew on gloves and hefted the weed whacker.
The weeds were thick in the back planting bed, to my chagrin. I set the machine down, considered the thick mat of creeping plants that were threatening the little Japanese maple I have come to love. I bent down and with both hands began to tear at the runners. The crunch of leaves, snapping of twigs sounded oddly soothing in symmetry with the bird songs and wind. I pulled and clutched. I relaxed.
As I cleared weeds, I felt a lightening of spirit, wonderful and mysterious. The weeds I am sure saw no friend in me, but for the first time in a long time I felt no grudge against them. It felt good to clear, to uncover, to make things right. I finally understood that if the weeds were to have a purpose other than being a nuisance, it was to make me appreciate the joy of simple tasks with measurable results. This rejuvenated me.
We can all rise again, in ways big and small, and it is perhaps the small ways that underpin our lives. I give thanks for the joy of small things.
I feel unqualified to speak in depth of the significance of Easter. Others know more, and have said it better. The commentary is too well known for me to illuminate it further. Instead I will speak of rebirth on a small scale, the kind to be found in weeds and dirt, flowers and sunlight, on a rather ordinary Saturday.
My mind had been caroming about, never sitting still. A shame, really, on such a beautiful day. I flitted from chore to chore. I folded laundry, swept floors, caulked tubs. Yard work beckoned for the second day in a row. I finally could not take the confines of my house any longer and fled to the less claustrophobic setting of my backyard. It was white gold sunlight under a cerulean sky. The lessening of tension in my shoulders and gut were immediate, even as I drew on gloves and hefted the weed whacker.
The weeds were thick in the back planting bed, to my chagrin. I set the machine down, considered the thick mat of creeping plants that were threatening the little Japanese maple I have come to love. I bent down and with both hands began to tear at the runners. The crunch of leaves, snapping of twigs sounded oddly soothing in symmetry with the bird songs and wind. I pulled and clutched. I relaxed.
As I cleared weeds, I felt a lightening of spirit, wonderful and mysterious. The weeds I am sure saw no friend in me, but for the first time in a long time I felt no grudge against them. It felt good to clear, to uncover, to make things right. I finally understood that if the weeds were to have a purpose other than being a nuisance, it was to make me appreciate the joy of simple tasks with measurable results. This rejuvenated me.
We can all rise again, in ways big and small, and it is perhaps the small ways that underpin our lives. I give thanks for the joy of small things.
07 April 2012
Tell Us, O Master, What Is Perfection?
"The perfect blend of spices, cheese and bread crumbs for you to make something wonderful..."
...Or some such drivel as I was about to push the 'Off' button. The tag line caught my attention. I was momentarily transfixed by what I was hearing and seeing on the tube. So now a Very Large Company has rolled out a new product to further relieve a long-suffering public from the burden of actually thinking about what they may want on their food. This company has combined spices (their choices), cheeses (their choices) and bread crumbs (simplicity itself to make).
Spices. Cheeses. Bread crumbs. All in one convenient (petrochemical-based plastic) package.
I watched the happy family gathered around the (perfectly) golden brown and delicious Spice/Cheese/BreadCrumb encrusted chicken breasts, and wondered if it is truly possible to know perfection if you refuse to try and define it yourself.
Because the contents of that bag were defined by market research and focus groups, and 'cheese' as generic monikers, combined with the seemingly insatiable appetite for convenience. Letting a faceless group constantly define the edges of taste and experience means giving up discrimination and control; it means giving up the ability to self-generate one's true likes and desires. If you give up that ability, then you will probably never know perfection. The hollow feeling in your stomach that you believe to be hunger is really the maw of an appetite that will never be fulfilled.
Turning off the television, I resolved again to seek my own perfection, away from the false promises of a Very Large Company. The search will be more work, but the result will be my own.
...Or some such drivel as I was about to push the 'Off' button. The tag line caught my attention. I was momentarily transfixed by what I was hearing and seeing on the tube. So now a Very Large Company has rolled out a new product to further relieve a long-suffering public from the burden of actually thinking about what they may want on their food. This company has combined spices (their choices), cheeses (their choices) and bread crumbs (simplicity itself to make).
Spices. Cheeses. Bread crumbs. All in one convenient (petrochemical-based plastic) package.
I watched the happy family gathered around the (perfectly) golden brown and delicious Spice/Cheese/BreadCrumb encrusted chicken breasts, and wondered if it is truly possible to know perfection if you refuse to try and define it yourself.
Because the contents of that bag were defined by market research and focus groups, and 'cheese' as generic monikers, combined with the seemingly insatiable appetite for convenience. Letting a faceless group constantly define the edges of taste and experience means giving up discrimination and control; it means giving up the ability to self-generate one's true likes and desires. If you give up that ability, then you will probably never know perfection. The hollow feeling in your stomach that you believe to be hunger is really the maw of an appetite that will never be fulfilled.
Turning off the television, I resolved again to seek my own perfection, away from the false promises of a Very Large Company. The search will be more work, but the result will be my own.
05 April 2012
Ebb and Flow
Much of the conventional wisdom I hear regarding writing is that to be a successful writer, one must write even when one feels no inspiration. Part of me knows it to be true, part of me fears it to be true. I do not take issue with that assertion.
I do believe, as so eloquently stated by the architect Le Corbusier, that "creation is a patient search". Words that resonate in my soul as an architect and aspiring writer and photographer. This patient search can sometimes be at odds with the imperative to write at all times. I suspect that the tension between those poles has more than once been the fuel behind by creative bonfires. It can be productive but draining.
Occasionally I find myself in the grip of a story I feel I must write but find something holding me back. It is the feel of the mind straining at the leash, but the heart pulling it back and commanding it to "Sit!". I have been at the end of that tether since the beginning of the month of April.
Tonight I ate dinner out on my porch. A lovely evening, tinged with blue light and optimism after a splendid day goofing off with my daughter. But the whispers were there. I heard the conversation between heart and mind, felt that impulse to rush to the keyboard to hammer out the story that has been nipping at me for days. I nearly gave in, even began some research as I dished up a fine bowl of ad hoc jambalaya.
But I couldn't do it. The table on the porch beckoned, the evening breeze a smile from a pretty lady, and my heart commanded my feet to carry me outside. The taskmaster in my head growled with resignation, and turned off his desk lamp before shuffling off in a huff.
I myself let go of the tension and bade myself, Eat. Rest. Be.
The story is still there, dear readers, as I knew it would be. I know my heart is right on this one. Yes, we must write as often as we can, and I will. But I will also respect my developing sense of patience, listening to my heart, because sometimes the right time for something is only known by itself. We must allow for patient creation.
I do believe, as so eloquently stated by the architect Le Corbusier, that "creation is a patient search". Words that resonate in my soul as an architect and aspiring writer and photographer. This patient search can sometimes be at odds with the imperative to write at all times. I suspect that the tension between those poles has more than once been the fuel behind by creative bonfires. It can be productive but draining.
Occasionally I find myself in the grip of a story I feel I must write but find something holding me back. It is the feel of the mind straining at the leash, but the heart pulling it back and commanding it to "Sit!". I have been at the end of that tether since the beginning of the month of April.
Tonight I ate dinner out on my porch. A lovely evening, tinged with blue light and optimism after a splendid day goofing off with my daughter. But the whispers were there. I heard the conversation between heart and mind, felt that impulse to rush to the keyboard to hammer out the story that has been nipping at me for days. I nearly gave in, even began some research as I dished up a fine bowl of ad hoc jambalaya.
But I couldn't do it. The table on the porch beckoned, the evening breeze a smile from a pretty lady, and my heart commanded my feet to carry me outside. The taskmaster in my head growled with resignation, and turned off his desk lamp before shuffling off in a huff.
I myself let go of the tension and bade myself, Eat. Rest. Be.
The story is still there, dear readers, as I knew it would be. I know my heart is right on this one. Yes, we must write as often as we can, and I will. But I will also respect my developing sense of patience, listening to my heart, because sometimes the right time for something is only known by itself. We must allow for patient creation.
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