{conviction}

Odd as it may sound, I've always been a bit too good at getting my point across.  I like toying with words; figuring out all the nuances of their meaning, taking note of cultural perception, and throwing out expressions with multiple meanings just to see which one people are the most likely to contextually latch onto. An inability to communicate isn't really a failing in our family, and for me in particular, I like my words to be surgical in their precision.
However, at the same time, a lack of linguistic ambiguity can get troublesome at times. When it's easy to be manifestly clear on exactly what you mean, it also means that if you change your mind the transformation is glaring. Technically that shouldn't be a bad thing. After all, the ability to admit when you're wrong is admirable, indicative of "strong moral fiber" and the like. But in the real world, where perception rules as king, things grow trickier.
People don't take kindly to those that change their minds. Take politics, where a track record is easily traceable, there are few things more ridiculed than a politician who has "more waffles than a House of Pancakes." Theoretically the ability to admit you were wrong is admirable, but, as soon as you descend into messy real life people don't like people that change their minds, and they don't trust them.
It's an intriguing issue. Nowadays we like songs that boast "Baby I was born this way" and "I'm never changing who I am." Consistency and conviction are strengths; indecisiveness and flexibility are the traits of snakes and liars. In "Serenity" a priest uses his dying breath to urge the protagonist "I don't care what you believe in, just believe in it."
This bothers me. I don't like people who vacillate, but, at the same time, there are few things that frustrate me more than those who refuse to explore ideas that may contradict what they think. (And when I say "explore ideas" I mean "seriously consider that there may be some truth to them, or at least make an honest effort to understand the thought process behind them." Not "grit your teeth and grouse your way through it.") Personally, I like reading articles that throw a wrench in my convictions, they force me to step back and make sure I really understand what I believe; it's my version of a morning sudoku puzzle.
When the Liberal Education movement was revived in the nineteenth century the ideal was to teach people to think for themselves. Education was no longer merely about teaching people how to read; it was about liberating men from believing something simply because someone "said so" and everybody "thinks so" and to teach them to evaluate what is and isn't true for themselves. When I hear professors talk about a liberal education being meant to give students an opportunity to "explore other subjects that they wouldn't necessarily study on their own" I want to throw a textbook at their heads. Aside from being a rather horrible selling point, it's simply wrong.
Studying the liberal arts is not supposed to be about checking out a bunch of subjects so you can discover that even though you thought you'd be a lawyer you've decided to instead get a degree in Medieval Literature. It's about learning how to learn for the rest of your life by producing a person who is "open-minded and free from provincialism, dogma, preconception, and ideology; conscious of their opinions and judgments; reflective of their actions; and aware of their place in the social and natural worlds." It is meant to teach you to have convictions because you are convinced, rather than because you are stubborn.

In the end, I think that is the way to strike a proper balance between conviction and persuasion. Quite simply, be conscious of what you believe and why, and take the time to be aware of what arguments exist in opposition. After all, "the one who states his case first seems right, until the other comes and examines him." You should believe things because you fully understand them, not because you read a rousing article promoting one side of the issue. "The false is forever in the lead in everything.  . .[and when] people marry themselves to the first tale told. . . no room is left for the truth."

In order to be a person of conviction rather than merely an obstinate one, you must have a full understanding of a matter; and if you don't, then you have no business arguing for or against it. The world of misinformation is made of third-hand accounts.
We are quick to take sides and so reluctant to part from them, but "maturity is recognized in the deliberateness with which a person adopts a creed."

Sources: JibJab, Lady Gaga "Born This Way," Imagine Dragons "It's Time," Serenity, "The Meaning of a Liberal Education," The American Association for the Advancement of Science, Proverbs 18:17 ESV, Baltasar Gracian.

{fragility}

"Girls are supposed to cry. Sometimes they don't even know why, they simply do."

"She wasn't sure if she had read that in a book or if someone has told her. However, the opinion seemed to be surprisingly universal, it was simply feminine nature to cry at times, sometimes for reasons not fully understood. It confused her, she wasn't sure if it was supposed to be intentional or not. It must have to be intentional, after all, one could hardly be expected to involuntarily burst into tears for no reason, could they? Perhaps they could. Perhaps that was the problem.

Was it possible that she simply was not sad enough? Or maybe she was unfeeling? Perhaps if she only allowed things to affect her more she would find herself crying for reasons she could not explain. Or if she only thought about them more? That was feminine nature too wasn't it? Over-thinking things? She couldn't help but conclude this to be the answer to the problem. She simply wasn't allowing herself to immerse her mind fully into the emotional nuances of things. Life is a tragedy to those who feel, apparently she wasn't feeling enough.

It felt rather silly though, crying. The first time she tried it was midday, the sun was shining and it felt like silliness. So she tried it again at night, after all the lights in the house were long out and the fragile mood of witching hour had set in. It was a full moon. The lawn was glittering in the silver light from the dew, and serene glow of the landscape made rampant emotions seem absurd. So she waited again, until the moon was just a narrow sliver in the sky.

She seated herself on the end of a long bench by the window and gaze outside. There was little light, just enough to see the dim shapes of the shrubs, the slice of light from the moon was so slight it seemed mournful, and the stars seemed far brighter. And she began to think, about all the hopeless things she never thought about.

She thought about loneliness first, and all the people who wandered around lost from themselves. She thought about lovers, and about how the heart could beat so quickly it was sometimes painful. She thought about all the loves that failed, only halfway, but how that was enough. She thought about being forgotten by people, and how little her private tragedies meant to the world. She thought about people who lived and died for a dream, but never achieved it. She thought about the people who were afraid of growing up, and how it was that fear that meant that they were, but only in the worst ways. And then she thought about the last time she had cried, and it was because her kitten had died and she hadn't been able to say goodbye.

And then, in the corner of her eyes there was that pricking sensation you have when you're about to cry. And she thought about all the things she would never say. And finally she thought about a boy she had once loved, and how it had been the first time she had ever been in love with anyone. And she thought about how she had once had a certain smile when she thought about him, and now she couldn't remember it. And she thought about how he had left, and she had let him. And she thought about all the things that had been said, and how they were never concluded. And she thought about all the ideas and dreams that had died, and how she didn't even understand them any more. And she thought about how there were certain things that could never be undone. And she thought about how she had loved him, and how she wished she could have told him, so that he would have known that it had meant something, once.

After several long moments a tear slid down her face. It was cold and she could feel her face chill from its slow meandering path down her cheek.

 And that was all; there were no more tears after that. Because things had been sad, and they always would be a little sad. But they were also beautiful and fragile. And she couldn't help but think that it was better to be happy that they once were, than sad because now they weren't."

Write what you know. Just start. Don't delay yourself with typos, editing, rewriting. Just write. Supposedly good reading is born from hard writing. Writing is meant to hurt. Word after painful word; at times that is the process that creates truly great writing. After all, what is the value if there is no cost?

Write what you know. Simple sounding instructions. But what do I know? And which parts of it matter? Writing to me often feels as though I am laying my mind out for dissection.  The blank page is my operating room; paragraphs are the incisions; the black characters which appear, dripping one by one down my arms and falling from the tips of my fingers onto the page, they are the blood.

Is that too gruesome? Too painful a process? Perhaps it is a bit macabre. Surely not all writing is so painful. Surely there are times when the words simply flow, or perhaps over time, the process grows easier. Not everything has to hurt.

But still, there is something about creativity; it's vulnerable and vulnerability hurts. I always grow cold when I begin to write, as though my skin is stripped raw.  Plato wished to separate the mind from the body, Whitman insisted they were inseparably entwined. There is a visceral nature in some writing that cannot be denied; when a contemplation of emotions seems to actually twist something in your heart, or a reflection of sensations seems to be tangibly traced down your spine. Complicated, human writing that has not been reduced to intellectualism is as physical and emotional as it is mental.

The writers who resonate the most deeply are those who admit that people have minds, bodies, and souls. But such admissions are hard and they are rare; because admitting all three makes us terribly complicated. It is tempting to try to simplify and endeavor to to make sense with only two of them, but in doing so we find ourselves stuck in molds that have left parts sticking out. We were not intended to operate well while in denial of one third of our composition.

To write well, one must accept that there are thoughts and feelings, both emotional and physical, and something elusively complicated that defies disregard called the soul. And all of these things bleed into each other like a Ven diagram. And like the wind, they cannot be caught and pinned down for easy inspection; they must be sensed, reflected upon, and then finally described with far too many words. Words that plumb the depths of our language and sometimes necessitate raiding the others; complicated words that need a Latin dictionary to fully comprehend the nuances of.

So you must press where it hurts. Little value will come from the repeated dusting of the surface, you must go deeper. Delve far into your heart, mind, soul, and note what flinches when you touch it. The word 'exquisite' expresses something that is beautiful and delicate, but the origin of the term comes from the Latin of ex (out) and quaerere (search/seek); implying the notion that much of what makes a thing exquisite is in the journey and labour of finding and obtaining it.

To write something that is more than simply good it is necessary to be brave. Intellectually I can tolerate rejection... but to write something that is exquisite it is necessary for me to reach far deeper. And I am not sure if I am ready to let the world see my heart or my soul.

{sources and references in this post include F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry Miller, Karl Lagerfeld, Jonah Lehrer, Nancy Pearcey, Marilynne Robinson, and Jessica Kerwin Jenkins}

[immortality]

It is a matter of frustration to me that I will never know all the things I want to; that there is a limit to the knowledge that I am capable of possessing. Mortality has never fazed me, I have few feelings regarding my inevitable death except that I'd rather it be quick. I will live for as long as I do, and try to be the best that I can be until then. But I have moments when I wonder, wish it were possible, to imagine the vast potential of immortality.

In my mind there is a sort of heaviness to the thought. The weight of knowledge. It would be serene, I suppose, for that is how immortals are always imagined to be. Cool judgement, unruffled by rampant emotions and the foibles that are so often men's undoing. How long would a person have to live before life stopped offering further lessons to learn?

If one could be born to live indefinitely I cannot help but imagine the satisfaction of obtaining knowledge, knowing that there is no eventual, premature end-date. It is man's doom that he will never fully understand anything, for in order to do so it would be necessary for him to understand everything. What would a man be like, if he were able to eventually understand everything?

But it is a this point in my ruminations that I wonder if the human soul would be able to bear it; the lives that end; the nations that rise and then crumble into dust; the endless stream of knowledge; the experiences and observations hung about your shoulders, each a grain of wisdom forged in bitter, bitter experiences. The endless seeing and seeing, and understanding and knowing, and watching as errors are made again and again, as death, and pain, and bitter, bitter experiences are repeated over and over again. I think I would never stop crying if I were a god.

I do not think a human would choose to be wise if he were to live forever.

And yet...I falter here. I wish I could be wise; that every triumph in understanding were not dimmed by the knowledge that there is an infinity of understanding that I will always lack. Knowing you know nothing is supposed to be the beginning of wisdom, but for me, that realization feels like a betrayal that does not grow less painful with time.

The feeling never fails to catch me off guard; it's like the feeling of heartbreak in your chest, that makes you realize emotions can physically hurt. It's despair and confusion and hurt and the bleak sense of wondering what the point is to anything. I am always tempted to throw rocks at the sky and inquire dully, "is this necessary?" Christianly I know the answer, but sometimes, when I sit in the dark and think about immortality, I am dissatisfied.

[trees are beautiful, why don't you photograph trees?]

Dick Avery: I do what I do for a living, it has to do with supply and demand. You'd be amazed how small the demand is for pictures of trees. 

I like trees...

This realization struck me while I was outside reading (my appreciation of trees, of lack thereof, is not typically a matter to which I devote much contemplation): I have become one of those people who like trees.

In the past, trees have always been, quite simply put, trees. They're quite nice at times, but really, what kind of person sits around philosophically meditating on them? When I was twelve and saw Funny Face for the first time I loved Dick Avery's wry comment. Liking, or indeed, loving trees was something best left to those who were reaching to find meaning and pleasure in life. If you can't deal with the complexities of humans and their potential, love trees.

So you can imagine my astonishment when, all these years later, I came to the realization that my view of life, beauty, pleasure, and serenity has become, in this innocuous way, fundamentally changed. I like trees: as ideas, as objects, as a presence. All these years later I have evolved into being exactly what as a child I found odd, laughable, and mildly pitiable.

It was a disconcerting thought at first. I am of the opinion that children often possess a razor sharp insight through the ludicrousness into which adults rationalize themselves. When I notice my opinion shifting I try my best to question both myself and what caused the change. My father says that the word "rationalize" is exactly what it sounds like,  it's coming up with a "a rational lie." I hate the idea that I might methodically lie to myself out of a desire for comfort; the mere thought horrifies me.

But trees, it's rather innocent sounding isn't? I don't feel laughable or pitiable for it. I believe I am far more complex and aware now than I was at the age of twelve, and therefore, hardly in need of "reaching" to find meaning in life. I like people, both in the abstract and in actuality. There is no pantheism or worship of Gaia involved in my newfound appreciation of arbores in et ex silvis.

I simply find trees to be lovely. I could give you a long list of reasons why; they are beautiful, they are serene, they have as much variation as most people, the sound of the wind rushing through their leaves is delightful... but now I do sound silly and really none of those thing are actually part of my rational.

The older I get the more concerned I become with the thought of missing or not properly appreciating things simply because they have always been there. I get so caught up in the future, in quantifiable facts, failures, irritations, complications, and "knowing things" that I forget to stop, look around, and appreciate the exquisite things that are always there. The paintings that have been on the walls since childhood, the colour of the clouds at sunrise...

I feel that as a child I was spoiled with beauty to the point that I could discriminate against that which was every day... but now, it's been so long since I had the time to stop and study a tree, that when I finally find the time to look, I'm staggered by all the beauty I'd forgotten.

I like trees, and I'm alright with that. And I don't think I'm childish for realizing it is alright to love something simple; I think I am growing up.

letter to ________ {mary oliver}

You have broken my heart.

Just as well. Now

I am learning to rise

above all that, learning

the thin life, waking up

simply to praise

everything in this world that is

strong and beautiful

always---the trees, the rocks,

the fields, the news

from heaven, the laughter

that comes back

all the same. Just as well. Time

to read books, rake the lawn

in peace, sweep the floor, scour

the faces of pans,

anything. And I have been so

diligent it is almost

over, I am growing myself

as strong as rock, as a tree

which, if I put my arms around it, it does not

lean away. It is a

wonderful life. Comfortable.

I read the papers. Maybe

I will go on a cruise, maybe I will

cross the entire ocean, more than once.

Whatever you think, I have scarcely

thought of you. Whatever you imagine.

it never really happened. Only a few

evenings of nonsense. Whatever you believe--

dear one, dear one--

do not believe this letter.

In which I soliloquize about reading...

It's been ages since I last posted. I was traveling in the spring and this summer I've been reading like mad. It's been delightful, reading again. When I was eleven I spent almost all of my time reading, but as I got older the frequency with which I read entire books dropped. It wasn't that I wasn't reading, but it was articles, textbooks, references, and such; not the kinds of things you put down on booklists or find yourself thrilled by.

However this summer I've started tearing through books again. Novels, history, sociology, and pedagogy mostly; it's made me deliriously happy. Really. My new favourite thing is to wake up before the sun has risen, make myself a latte, and then curl up in a winged armchair and read while the morning sunlight begins the pour in through the windows. Immersing yourself in a delightful book while the room slowly fills with sunlight feels like ascending into nirvana. Because, if you're really absorbed in the book, you aren't really paying much attention to the sun, you're just vaguely conscious that the longer you read the more the entire world seems to be improving around you.

I've also taken to using the Kindle app. on my iPad. It's shocking, I know, and if you're a book aficionado I understand if you feel somewhat obliged to shun me, but you must hear me out. Physical books will always hold a place in my heart (unless of course they're paperbacks, which are horrid and I hate).

However, my affection for books has more to do with their containing information that I want, than that they are antique, tooled leather, paper holders. I don't buy books because they're pretty, or musty smelling, or satisfying to hold, I buy them because I want to read them. While a Kindle will never make shivers of glee run up my spine, the fact that I can carry a couple hundred books around in my purse makes up for the lack of gilt edging.

I still buy physical books, but now I can read Les Miserables in my room in hardcover, or spontaneously in a coffee shop when I find myself with fifteen spare minutes I didn't expect to have.

Date a girl who reads {Rosemarie Urquico}

Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

{the flowers of spring}

The first crocuses of spring are beginning to poke their heads inquisitively out. I've never particularly cared for crocuses as flowers, but the sight of them brings back fond memories. One or two of them would always bloom in the garden right in front of our house.

When I was little, my mother would always keep a sharp lookout for them. At the sight of their first blossoms she would drag all of us children outside, point them out, and then have us link arms and skip around our driveway singing Gilbert & Sullivan's "The Flowers of Spring" from "The Mikado."

"The flowers that bloom in the Spring,

Tra la!

Bring promise of merry sunshine!

As we merrily dance and we sing,

Tra la!

We welcome the hope that they bring,

Tra la!

Of a summer of roses and wine,

Of a summer of roses and wine!

And that's what we mean,
When we say that a thing,
Is welcome as flowers that bloom in the Spring,
Tra la la la laha! Tra la la la laha
As welcome as flowers of Spring,
Tra la la la laha! Tra la la la laha!
Tra la la la la la!"

{new favourite quote}

“I want to be a character, I don’t want to be defined, I want to change, everyday…I want to be silly, I want to be wonderful, I want to prance instead of walk, skip instead of run, I want flowers, lots of flowers, I want to write until the words mean nothing to others, but everything to me. I want to be enigmatic and magnificent. I want my aura to be gold; I want to wake up with the sun and with a smile…I want books, lots and lots of books, I want to read all day, completely let go, let my imagination run wild. I want to grasp life with both hands and not let go, I want to be magical and pretty…I want to watch Breakfast At Tiffany’s until I know every line. I want to be compassionate and considerate, and I want to make other people smile. I want to make them proud.”

~Victoria Hart

{the o.k. plateau}

Yesterday I was reading an article on mental athletes by the New York Times, it was a fascinating subject and contained so much information that I could probably write a whole series of blogposts about it. However, there was one section in particular that caught my attention and that I wanted to share.

In the "Secrets of a Mind-Gamer" (an article with a somewhat off-putting and tawdry introduction that will only make sense if you read the article in entirety) Joshua Foer explores his journey from journalistic curiosity to competing for the United States Memory Championship. As he related the steps he took, he tells of how he disappointed he was when he seemingly hit the plateau of his memorizing potential quite early on,