Of This and Other Worlds (A Dose of Observation and Optimism)

Summer Greenery in Brooklyn, New York

We often describe experiences that fill us with awe as “other-worldly.”

The layers of golden orange in the sky, the feeling of vast love for other people that washes upon us at the most unexpected of moments, the reflection of the moon in a lake and the ripples that blur together the murkiness of the water and the clarity of the heavens. All of these things, we often remark, it is as though they are of another time and place.

But these things, we would do well to remember, are our world. They do exist all around us; we are even engulfed in them. 

So though our troubles are many and great, may we sometimes pause and remember that beauty still exists, and love’s forms are all around us.

Oranges in Spain

Flora in Massachusetts

Writing: The Great Love and Lie

Image from http://dianaludwig.com/illus/wnwg9.html

Few things in this world frighten me so immensely as the reality of how it is all too easy to lie to ourselves, and to believe our lies so adamantly. Even when it comes to our greatest desires for our lives, we often fail to recognize the truth, even when it is one of the most important recognitions we could possibly make.

These days, I wake up each morning with a new lie weighing heavily on my mind. They’re uncovered in my dreams, in sleeplessness, in tears, in sighs of relief, and in the renewed promise of the early morning hours.

One of the biggest lies I have told myself is that I can be a truly fulfilled and happy person without writing as the central focus of my life. But as tears streamed down my face first in bed and then in such mundane places as the aisles of the grocery store, the palpability of my great lie became evident. Writing was always, has always been, a part of my very being. It compels me to live a more honest and meaningful existence. It makes sense when nothing else does. It is my great solace, and my great ardor.

But you can only kid yourself about such things as this for so long before you remember what is true. It isn’t anyone who’s heart rate speeds up after reading a good sentence, or who wakes each day to look at the Ernest Hemingway quote pasted up on the wall:

Image from http://www.qualitylogoproducts.com/blog/hemingway-quotes-inspire-blogging-writing/

This is, and I believe always will be, true for me. I will never be anything quite as much as I am a writer. And so long as a life of artificial and half-hearted pursuits is not the sort which I long to live, I have found that I must learn to do those things that call out to me (and still whisper to me when I've strayed). Indeed, my only option, it seems, is to hold desperately onto those enduring passions that are so sweetly rare, because when we are lucky enough to find something that means the world to us, that is an occasion that perhaps most begs us to quit our lies and surrender to self-confessed truths.

It is infrequently that I feel I am in such a position to offer advice. However, let this post convey one thing to all readers: If there is something that you love like nothing else in the world, something that keeps you up at night, something that seems like the most genuine pursuit you could possibly undertake, then you must go after it if you can. Not all are so lucky to have the opportunity to pursue the things they love, but if you are, do so humbly and graciously, and always feel a resounding love for that truth you tell to yourself and to the world.

            

One Day

Late morning light

Morning: I woke just like any other day, to the sound of an alarm and that minute measure of dimmed light that falls through the torn curtain over my window. In paisley underwear, I adjusted to my surroundings and departed from the dreamland of the night. Remnants of sleep stayed in my eyes as reality commenced once again and the hours stretched out ahead of me. I felt better after a cup of tea.

Early afternoon: I walked the now-familiar path to the grocery market that is two subway stops and a walk away from my apartment. Rounding the corner to the last straight away, I smiled as I always do when I see the street’s people sitting on stoops, lazily conversing with one another or talking on the phone, or the elderly woman who leans over her windowsill, just watching as the younger generations pass by below. A mother grabbed the hand of her toddler child, and I passed my favorite car in Brooklyn, a worn blue Volkswagen van that’s always parked on the right side of the street. I picked up some groceries and then trailed back, seeing much of the same as I mimicked the walk there. A blonde haired boy walked ahead of me, and we rounded the corner in the unity of strangeness back onto the main street where all is less intimate and affable.

A familiar landmark of my Brooklyn life

Mid afternoon: The subway never ceases to make me smile. Families arrange themselves in the cluster of seats that are as close together as they can manage. Couples sleepily hold onto one another, and often fall asleep on the shoulder of their dearly beloved. A man sits alone in the back of the subway car, absorbing the daily news in its black and white print, sometimes good and sometimes that which warrants tears (and other times, both). Adolescent girls group together and alternate between complimenting one another, conversations that seem to take a turn for the somber, and the most commonplace yet happiest laughs on earth. I take all of this in, intoxicated by the all too rare displays of domesticity, intellectual pursuits, and the foreign familiarity of friendships. Sometimes I’m caught in the act of observing my fellow commuters and must make a choice to either avert my gaze towards the most recent advertisement or smile in the way that means our existence for the next few minutes is kindred. I will not question them as the world so often does. I will not wonder if this is an affectation or if their world has become more insincere than they care to admit. I will share in their madness and happiness, even if only until the car doors slide open and we walk out to the world again.

Where I go to go somewhere else

Evening: This is when the lies come. It’s so easy to feign contentment, until it’s not anymore. Sunset can be beautiful, but it is as though I learned in that literature class as well as from my own studies of the world; if there is beauty, there must be an opposite. And at some point we all meet it.

Sunset in Union Square

Night: My tendency towards bedtime comes and goes. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a particular fondness for it, but even I can admit that there is a certain peacefulness and tired relinquishment that cloaks someone in those few moments, however long or short, that pass between waking's malaise and slumber's restfulness. Maybe we will dream tonight and maybe not. Perhaps the strangest thing is that so often we don’t even wonder whether we’ll dream. That, I think, is the mechanistic side of living. There are good things about the night though. Spotting stars and the glow of the moon in its phase for the passing moment can capture a sort of strange hopefulness for the umpteenth time, as we become sanguine once again, echoing the light of those stars and moon above, wondering what tomorrow may bring.