It is a lie that "living" in the past or the future necessarily robs us of our ability to be fully present in the moment. Both past and future have the power to bring to us a more intense and powerful awareness of who we are right now. We cannot capture the present as might like through a deliberate act of intention or a force of focus: time will not be held or trapped. But our capacity for reflection and anticipation is a tool: we can use it to escape to excuse, to worry; or we can use it as a doorway to wisdom, appreciation and opportunity. And if we allow it to bring us this gift of heightened appreciation, we may find that what cannot be captured will in fact offer itself up willingly to an intensity of raw, passionate experience.
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I am in a mood for reinvention. It is just that kind of afternoon that gnaws and whispers at me, begging for something entirely new. If I had to make up a whole new life right now, who would I be? Of course, what I would want is to have financial freedom so that I could go anywhere. Be anyone or anything at the blink of an eye.
Alright then, let's start with an ideal. Since I don't actually have to be realistic about this, I can be anyone I like. Let's see... I am independently wealthy, but I pass myself off as a travel writer. I maintain a blog and slowly develop an increasing a following as an elusive figure on various social media. What is my name? Hmm. I'll have to think about that. There is no burning name calling to me, just a desire to be relieved of the mundanity of every day selfdom. And a desire not be forever tagged with the same name, not even one I chose myself. It seems too limiting somehow. I could, of course, be any of my existing alter-egos, but that also does not satisfy the longing for escape. How about Briony? The last name can't be too unusual; I wouldn't want any questions about its origin. But I would like something pretty. How about Wintergreen? Briony Wintergreen. Probably too unusual and fanciful, but right at the moment, I don't care. There. It's decided. I shall be Briony Wintergreen. Now Briony is herself a master of reinvention. As Briony, I live out of a suitcase. I have just a few staples: good quality jeans, tops and jumpers, with a pretty scarf and ear rings. There may even be a tailored jacket involved. In addition to my staples, I keep room for one fanciful outfit, which I keep until I have had my fill of it and want to change it for a different mood. I stay at character-full B&Bs and boutique hotels. As for my hair, is it long enough to be absent-mindedly tied back or is it a short, wash-and-wear style that can cope with being washed regularly, in a bath if necessary? Hmm - I've got a vote each way on that one. Both have their attractions and their down-sides. Short is probably both more flattering and more sensible, but once again, I'm in the mood to be fanciful. Long it is. Will I own a car? Probably not, unless I really find I need to. Probably I will go with public transport with the occasional hire car as required. And where shall I start? The US and Canada or Europe? The US and Canada I think, so that I have all the romantic, fairy-tale excitement of Europe still before me. And what shall I call my blog? Now, there's a challenge. It wouldn't be an adventure blog or a touristy blog; more of an outsider's perspective and think-space. Something from mythology perhaps? For some reason I want to call it "Rivendell". Hardly imaginative or appropriate! But fun. Now, here's a thought: one option would be Ithaca, as in Homer's version thereof (though I should probably read the context before deciding on that!). Years ago, when I first heard the name, I badly wanted to use it in a book, and I like the idea of a mythical, possibly real place from heroic legends, especially one connected to Odyssey! So perhaps Ithaca might be a good possibility. In fact, it could not be more perfect. I just googled and found this quote, which sums up not only the blog, but Briony herself. Will you join me on the road to Ithaca? As you set out on your journey to Ithaca, pray that your journey be a long one, filled with adventure, filled with discovery. Laestrygonians and Cyclopes, the angry Poseidon--do not fear them: you'll never find such things on your way unless your sight is set high, unless a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. The Laestrygonians and Cyclopes, the savage Poseidon--you won't meet them so long as you do not admit them to your soul, as long as your soul does not set them before you. Pray that your road is a long one. May there be many summer mornings when with what pleasure, with what joy, you enter harbors never seen before. May you stop at Phoenician stations of trade to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, and voluptuous perfumes of every kind-- buy as many voluptuous perfumes as you can. And may you go to many Egyptian cities to learn and learn from those who know. Always keep Ithaca in your mind. You are destined to arrive there. But don't hurry your journey at all. Far better if it takes many years, and if you are old when you anchor at the island, rich with all you have gained on the way, not expecting that Ithaca will give you wealth. Ithaca has given you a beautiful journey. Without her you would never have set out. She has no more left to give you. And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not mocked you. As wise as you have become, so filled with experience, you will have understood what these Ithacas signify.” ― Barry B. Powell, Classical Myth Picture courtesy Pixabay I hear it long before I see it. Its whining whir, rising and falling arhythmically, is more penetrating than loud, and it feels as though it might be the ghost of a memory or a dream (nightmare) imprinted on my imagination. The ghost of a bus of another day, another early, reluctant morning. Surely it cannot take so long to cross the barrier from sound to sight. But yes, finally it rounds the bend, lurching towards the stop with another fretful, resentful whine. All too real. I pity the driver who must listen to its complaints all day, unable to become inured because it is never constant but changes cadence, pitch and urgency at a dizzying pace. The sound is all too gratingly familiar and yet impossible to wipe from consciousness. Finally it stops and I climb aboard, swallowed into its protesting onward journey into day.
Picture courtesy Pixabay There is an expression I am hearing with increasing frequency and I admit, I'm struggling with it: "first world problem". The more we become aware of the overwhelming and unimaginable levels of suffering experienced around the world, the more we are learning to re-evaluate and appreciate our own good fortune.
It is a wonderful and humbling thing to observe this increasing evidence of social consciousness and global compassion. And a dose of sheer, genuine gratitude in recognition of our privilege and blessings is a beautiful thing. Hopefully it is also an energising, motivating and inspiring thing. Yet I don't seem to be hearing much about gratitude. What I hear rather more often is a kind of self-inflicted guilt trip about why we should feel grateful and why we shouldn't complain about anything because anything less than catastrophe is hardly worth even considering. Isn't it? Is our pain and worry meaningless, illegitimate, invalid? Have we no right to it at all? Should we consider anything above the farthest reaches of experience to be so immensely privileged that we should never aspire to more? At least not while there is anyone who has less than we currently enjoy? And is it even possible to "rank" or "quantify" pain according to an arbitrary scale of legitimacy as we so often seem to be doing? Let us take, for example, just a few experiences that may engage us at some point. For the sake of simplicity, let us also assume that they are mutually exclusive, which, of course, they never are: * Terminal illness * Domestic violence * Chronic pain / illness / disability * Addiction * Overwork / "soul destroying" work * Being trapped in the wrong body * Overwhelming grief at the loss of a child / parent / partner / pet * Being denied, for religious, cultural, economic or other reasons the only life that ever meant anything * Inability to find a reason to get up in the morning The person who has lost the love of their life may look at the person suffering addiction and say "You created your own problems. I didn't." The person suffering addiction might then turn around and say, "You know, I really don't remember ever deciding, 'Guess what? I'm going to pursue a life of addiction. That sounds like a good thing to do to me.' And, by the way, if you are suffering grief, that means that you had someone in your life who cared about you. I'm never likely to be in your position because I've never had anyone in my life to lose." When I look at you, I may have no frame of reference for your pain. I may only hear you talk about your frustrated desire to remodel your kitchen and I may not understand. It may seem trivial or meaningless to me. I could criticise you for it and tell you that you have no right to complain. Will that help? Will it decrease your experience of pain to compare yourself with others and find yourself wanting? Will it increase your inner well of spontaneous gratitude or create anything new that is good or beautiful? Or I could trust that the universe knows what it's doing. I could trust that, even if I don't understand it, nothing is ever wasted. Pain is a strong motivator; it drives us to evaluate where we are and seek a creative way forward to reduce or eliminate it, and even better, to create new possibilities for ourselves and for others. If I accept that comparisons are indeed odious and that your pain is far deeper than I may see or know, then I can encourage you to do everything in your means to increase your sum of happiness. Who knows what might happen as a result? Since genuine joy is never materialistic or empty or trivial, what may spring from your pursuit of happiness? After all, what are known to be the greatest Indicators of longevity, health and productivity? The world turns on and is transformed by: love, connection, laughter, a sense of purpose and meaning. What happens if we lose the measuring scale, the one we use as a large stick with which to beat ourselves? What happens if instead we set out to do everything possible to increase the sum of true joy in the world? That may start with something as "selfish" and as "trivial" as more sleep, time and space for ourselves, a new kitchen, feeling good about the way we look. But, if we genuinely seek to reduce our pain then we will not long be satisfied with mere pleasure and distraction. Our quest for happiness will propel us forward on the path that inexorably leads to happiness and fulfilment, sparkle and an appetite for life. If we accept the validity of all that we are, experience and feel, we may indeed discover that anything is possible. The stars - and the world - are waiting for us. "It is a joy to be hidden, and disaster not to be found.”
D.W. Winnicott We try to define and understand our pain. We search for the reasons and we make comparisons, hoping to fix ourselves, hoping to arrive at a point beyond its reaches. A point of maturity. Or enlightenment. Because surely, if we would be truly mature, capable individuals, then we would know who we are; we would know how and what to choose, and in what to trust. Instead we stand, tiny atoms at the edge of a vast and listening universe, and we seek to know. Because surely we can. And in seeking to know we yearn to understand and to be understood. To see and to be seen. We ask of others what we have yet to find in ourselves. In reaching out we become equal parts judge and supplicant. But perhaps the truth is that we cannot ever know, ever compare, ever arrive. No matter who we are, or from where we have come to reach this point, we are all, now and always, tiny points of a unique madness within an astonishingly and incomprehensibly beautiful creative work. We judge ourselves for what we cannot give, cannot offer; we fall short of our lowest expectations. And in so doing we fail to see the miracle of what we yet share, every day. There is so very much we cannot do and that, in our deepest, most secret selves, may not want to do, that we perhaps cram our moments with duty in the name of compassion. But just occasionally, or even more frequently than we can know or imagine, across the vast universes that separate us all, one from another, there is a moment of genuine connection. And that connection comes, not from duty but from that unnameable place within that is as elusive and as inexplicable as our pain. True connection is not a choice or an act. And yet it speaks through all our actions, all our choices. We are uniquely flawed and uniquely astonishing. |
Introduction
"Only that day dawns to which we are awake," wrote Thoreau. This blog, in words and pictures, is my attempt to be awake: to be alive to the mystery of life. It is an exercise in gratitude and wonder, and an open invitation to beauty. Archives
May 2019
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