A Soul's Limn

Tea and flowers at Elixir in Great Barrington, MA

“What does your soul need to weather the winter?”

“This afternoon it told me that tea makes snow gentler.”

“And your soul, I do wonder, why it rises with the sun?”

“It wakes for the promise of good things to come.”

“What does so help it in passing the days?”

“The sun, a friend, and the world’s smitten gaze.”

“Does your soul seek much when the lights have gone low?”

“Last night it longed simply to hear the winds blow.” 

"And what does it whisper as it closes the curtain?"

"The moon, it seems, is always so certain."

How wonderful it is that any of us can converse with our soul, and the souls of others, during any passing or lingering moment into which we may stumble.

On Love

Life is wrought with mysteries; you have long been mine.

Here I avow only that circles do not cease, and neither does defenseless love, of which we are all so often victims.  

And I have wondered, futile though this wondering may be, why; how; still?

I grant this is elusive, yet l pursue it with fervor, nonetheless.

And I now know this:

It seems I loved you after all, still do.

"Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded. Someone sober will worry about events going badly. Let the lover be." ~Rumi

On (Un)Originality

Image from http://celebriot.com/dean-inge-quotes.

This is how it goes: I am infinitely indebted to my predecessors, my contemporaries, and the world's potentialities. Any word I could possibly form, any phrase, any story, any thought, is inevitably derived from some previous source. Thus originality ceases as a concept and is replaced quite simply, or quite complexly, by an amalgamation of various prior and present encounters. Write, speak, create not because you are saying, speaking, creating something new, but instead because you are compelled to put pen to paper, words to air, intrigue to life. This is all that we can hope to do.

On Not Writing

Those who have read my blog in the past may note that this post follows a quite extensive period of time during which I did not share any writing. Here, I break the spell, but only to muse on what I have learned during this time.

For quite awhile I believed writing was an essential part of who I am as a person. To separate myself from the pursuit of writing even temporarily, it seemed, was to separate myself from my own essence. Like many individuals who find that they are seemingly unable to express themselves artistically or verbally in the way they used to (or quite as prolifically in the way they used to), I felt that I had wavered in my own worth. To not be able to do the thing that is my very heart and passion, that must be a shortcoming or something over which to worry. But this, I have learned, is simply not true. For I am, at the end of the day, more than the words I write. I, and everyone else who lives, is also someone who is occupied with complexities of existence, curiosity towards people and surroundings, striving for that which lies ahead and reflecting on that which rests in our past. We are metaphysical and material; we are tension and dogged certainty.

To speak to and understand others, to walk outside by the moonlight, to read about ideas, to think without having to express, to lay down and dream, to have a crowded or empty mind, these are all endeavors equally important to that of writing. They develop something different within us and make us certain of the other pieces of our life.

I have learned, am learning, the toughest lesson of all: that I was not intended to experience only the one certain thing of my life, but rather many that I do not yet know.

My Thoughts on Writing (So Far, That Is)

Image from http://celebriot.com/william-styron-quotes/quote-9357

Listless, fickle, uncertain: I have often described myself this way. As I grew up, each year would stretch out before me, the bearer of new pursuits. But I would shudder after realizing once again that this or that preoccupation wasn’t my calling, for it didn’t end with a pounding in my head or the inexplicable need to go further. Thus I would leave without giving the matter too much thought.

Writing was different. I tried to leave it behind; I couldn’t.

In the middle of walking away towards something else, I’d become enamored with blank pages in front of me and the tremendous way they seduced me into telling my secrets, learning once again what I knew, and searching earnestly for what I had yet to learn.

Even still, there are occasional (perhaps more frequent than I care to admit) stretches of time when I think about leaving, about putting down the pen. But these hardly last. I feel their bitterness and recognize their temporal nature before allowing them to deceive me too significantly. These weeks are merely lapses, for I soon remember that while great loves may be veiled from us for a period of time, they are rarely, if ever, diminished.

Indeed, I have wondered before whether "the writer" is writing's star-crossed lover, for writing is and perhaps alway will be a terrible and unforgiving undertaking for them. In the end, though, it will also be incessantly their own. Thus the writer may be afflicted and morose at times; that can be granted. But they are also the happiest person to walk the earth. When words come well, bliss is found, and the frustrations inevitably subside as they are melded into the halfway-remembered, rose-tinged history of the archetypal romanticized process.

And so I, and many others I am certain, find a pen once more in spite of all else and succumb to the lure of words.

On Passion

From http://inspirably.com/quotes/by-jazley-faith/lack-of-passion-is-fatal

I used to dream of greatness, and among my several longings was the wish for my words to be remembered.

Then, as I began to write more regularly and came to live for the thrill words fed me, I came to understand that greatness did not satisfy the heart of what I was after, for greatness may not last, and it is up to others to attribute any confused measure of "the esteemed" to our work. Even more, I resolved that the shifting tides of the world's fads and now-and-then-fascinations could not truly fulfill what I knew I craved, for it was not the recognition that I truly hoped, but the fervor of the written.

Yes, it was passion, immense passion that cannot be tempered. Passion that comes from our soul and is unconcerned with the judgment of others. Passion that exists not so others can analyze or scrutinize it, but rather because it demands to exist. It exists naturally. Indeed, the writer often does not choose to articulate; they are instead drawn to do so by a strange and familiar compulsion with which they live.

Finally, I realized, “Ah, this is it. All this time, passion is what I truly have sought.” And when I realized this, the greatness for which I used to long, in all its temporality and feigned grandiosity, subsided at once.

For I finally knew there are greater things of which to dream.

On the Artistic Nature of Writing

Photo found at http://www.goodfon.su/wallpaper/polotno-kraska-mazki.html

Writing must be viewed as an art. Just as any natural-born visual artist, someone who is destined to write feels a stirring within them self now and again to create. Side stepping the obligations we admittedly possess to our visually oriented counterparts, it is not untrue to assert that those who have quietly moved a pen across paper have been some of the loudest people to exist in all of time. In their minds there dance decibels unknown to most, and in their reserved and polite surface manner, there is a delectable and unapologetic tinge of the profane. They are often learning to be altogether unconcerned with the mingling of their work and the moving of social eyes and lips, and one of their favorite phrases to realize in action is “bar none.” Indeed, at the end of the day, ink on paper is of little difference than pastels on canvas. Both begin as nothing, are found to be inconclusive when in their middle stages, and at their completion are either criticized or praised. And perhaps most importantly, when the process has concluded, the master of the art will look upon the reviews and scoff delightedly and irreverently. Their work was not intended for the inevitable machine of rants and raves, no. Their work was always theirs.

Photo found at http://lylim.net/2011/12/14/observations-on-keeping-a-journal-1/

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.

            

An Introduction

I first read one of my favorite quotes in the front of Michael Lang’s memoir The Road To Woodstock:

 With blustering resonance, these words echoed in my mind long after the first reading, persuading me to do the things I hadn’t thought to do before, pushing me towards the edge of everything unknown, towards the edge of a found sweetness.

Leaving high school and my hometown of Peachtree City, Georgia at the age of sixteen and traveling to the Northeast for early college was among the first marks of my irreverence for those experiences had merely in the name of convention. It was also a tremendous leap, perhaps more unexpected by myself than anyone else. It was a departure from my chronic cautiousness, and it changed my life for the better more than anything else.

Two years and a degree later, I couldn’t convince myself to stay in college in pursuit of a “higher” degree. For all my vast love of learning and my college’s community, I wasn’t quite fulfilled by the idea of staying in school for another two years. Then the opportunity came to spend the summer in Brooklyn as an in-office extension of my magazine internship. My parents would say, “This is your semester away from school to get some real world experience before returning for your Bachelor’s.” And I would agree, until the point where I stopped agreeing and started to know, intuitively, that some other path was waiting for my trek.

Looking back I now recognize that the first path only saw me attempting to triumph through a footslog, trying to fit myself into the role of my magazine internship position. But then one evening when I left the office, I decided to stop forcing myself into a box that I wasn’t meant for… and I never went back.

All the while, I’d continued nurturing my natural passion for vegan food, scouting out new vegan restaurants and bakeries with great frequency,  observing their inner workings and atmosphere, and taking advantage of finally having a kitchen at my disposal. Then it occurred to me that I just might have a love for the culinary arts and for sharing food that promotes good health for the earth, people, and animals. So while I was lost in my internship, I started to become found in the kitchen and in a wonderful little café called Sun In Bloom, where I recently took a job.

So there I was and here I am now and where I will be I cannot know. The “so far” is all I have, all any of us have. The so far holds our memories and our past cares, our used-to-be’s and our maybe’s, our whispers and our screams, our walking and then running to the now. Every day adds new experiences to our “so far.”

This blog captures mine.

Newly graduated from Bard College at Simon's Rock, all smiles as I approached the next part of my life and what it would teach me.