I missed my oldest sister's birthday! Dammit!
Liz writes, ". . . Yet, I don't get depressed here. I can cope with, and even somehow enjoy, the sinking melancholy of Venice, just for a few days. Somewhere in me I am able to recognize that this is not my melancholy; this is the city's own indigenous melancholy, and I am healthy enough these days to be able to feel the difference between me and it. This is a sign, I cannot help but think, of healing, of the coagulation of myself. There were a few years there, lost in borderless despair, when I used to experience all the world's sadness as my own. Everything sad leaked through me and left damp traces behind." p. 101
As Liz has come into her own, come to know her self; as she becomes grounded, centered, in this moment I feel I can be healed from taking on the insanity of
New York as my own - the pushy people, the obnoxiousness, the begging,
the blasting cabs, the delivery guys on bikes (both ignoring the law
and safety, for that matter), the smell, the rot, the decay, the noise,
the brash opinions, the energy, the passion, the drive, the rebellion,
the chaotic monotony ("Well, Stan, what do we have today?" "More chaos, Steve"). I can relate to her debilitating depression. However, I was so sad, I was unaware the rest of the world was said, too.
There are only 15 more pages before the eating stops and the praying starts. And, she's gotten a sense of self, it seems to me, in a slow, quiet place. It's easy to get caught up in NYC. You either steel yourself against it, walking down the street with the blinders of your iPod, cell phone and cool shades on or you get over come by it and drink a lot. Two elementary extremes, I know. I'm sure there are people out there more well-adjusted than I who can just experience NYC and not get overwhelmed by it, consumed by it nor take the city for granted, nor shut themselves up in their neighborhood, job or local, who love the city but are not defined by it.
What's my sense of self? I think I'm coming into my own as I write, as I gain a sense of purpose and as I follow these crazy writing ideas into the night (having neither a clue nor a flashlight).
Monday, January 30, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Day 16. January 20th, 2012. The Story and Pope Raphael De Fatso
Liz writes, "the only thing I ever want to know about any place or any person is the story, this is the only thing I watch for - never the aesthetic details". p 88
I laughed out loud at "St. Somebody of the Barefoot Penitents of Righteous Misery". And then I realized, I haven't ever, in recent recollection, laughed out loud while reading a book. You see the rare phenomenon on the subway and wonder what the giggler is reading. And, I'm the kind of person that always wants to know, "what's so funny?". When I come across a group of people laughing at something I always want in on the joke. I don't know if I'm driven by nosiness or the love of laughter, or just the need to know what's going on (I never seem to know). I don't know if I'm now laughing out loud because she's just funny, we have a similar sense of humor or I've just learned to lighten up over the years (or, quite possibly, some combination of those three). I think over time I'm taking myself less and less seriously and I'm finding more and more humor, more joy in things (until my ego steps in and dictates that I'm supposed to be the most joyful and the most humorous man in the room).
I can't retain facts, names or dates to save my life. But, I guess my interest lies in the story of something, too. Did anything interesting happen while that basilica was built? Who built it? What were the people like? Where did they live? Did the plague break out? Was there a fire? Did people die during the building of the basilica? Was there a war in Turkey and many men died getting the Turkish slate to lay the floors? Or, maybe that's why they had to use Spanish marble instead. And, the local marble smith was sick the day they had to cut the marble. So Giovanni Marbalini rose to fame because of that fated day when he happened by the building of the new basilica on his way to violin practice and just happened to have his marble cutting tools with him.
Maybe, the new pope, impatient to be recognized had the previous pope's marble head knocked off the commemorative statue and had his glued on (or, however the affix marble heads to marble bodies). Maybe the new Pope, Raphael De Fatso was plump and short, unlike his Adonis-like predecessor (I know, a Pope? Adonis like?). And, the local sculptor refused to sculpt the papal chubby dwarf in any way but how he looks because the sculptor was on a tantrum filled realist faze of his career (the rest of which he spent in the catacombs of said newly finished basilica). So, while the local finished his career in the basement, another "willing" sculptor sculpted the chubby popes head just in time for the papal inauguration (or whatever they do) and the unveiling of the new statue (fat head - Adonis body) in honor of Pope Fatso. But, Pope Fatto Squatto (as the locals came to call him) died three days later of a massive coronary and during the rush to get a new pope there was no time or interest t sculpt a new statue. So, those two knuckleheads stayed joined at the neck.
I love those kind of stories.
Thank you, God, for giving me my creativity back, as silly as it may be. I love to make stuff up.
Where were we? Oh! Still in Italy. And, then she still has to pray and love! I'm a slow reader. Apparently, that's how Liz reads too. So, we're two peas in completely different pods, at different times in different parts of the world. I'm plodding, contemplative. That's how I go. I even write slow. Stopping a lot for spell check doesn't help. And, I'm easily distracted. I need a haircut. I wonder if I should cut or break the spine of my journal so it makes it easier to write in it. That sounds so cruel and violent. Sometimes, randomness is funny.
I laughed out loud at "St. Somebody of the Barefoot Penitents of Righteous Misery". And then I realized, I haven't ever, in recent recollection, laughed out loud while reading a book. You see the rare phenomenon on the subway and wonder what the giggler is reading. And, I'm the kind of person that always wants to know, "what's so funny?". When I come across a group of people laughing at something I always want in on the joke. I don't know if I'm driven by nosiness or the love of laughter, or just the need to know what's going on (I never seem to know). I don't know if I'm now laughing out loud because she's just funny, we have a similar sense of humor or I've just learned to lighten up over the years (or, quite possibly, some combination of those three). I think over time I'm taking myself less and less seriously and I'm finding more and more humor, more joy in things (until my ego steps in and dictates that I'm supposed to be the most joyful and the most humorous man in the room).
I can't retain facts, names or dates to save my life. But, I guess my interest lies in the story of something, too. Did anything interesting happen while that basilica was built? Who built it? What were the people like? Where did they live? Did the plague break out? Was there a fire? Did people die during the building of the basilica? Was there a war in Turkey and many men died getting the Turkish slate to lay the floors? Or, maybe that's why they had to use Spanish marble instead. And, the local marble smith was sick the day they had to cut the marble. So Giovanni Marbalini rose to fame because of that fated day when he happened by the building of the new basilica on his way to violin practice and just happened to have his marble cutting tools with him.
Maybe, the new pope, impatient to be recognized had the previous pope's marble head knocked off the commemorative statue and had his glued on (or, however the affix marble heads to marble bodies). Maybe the new Pope, Raphael De Fatso was plump and short, unlike his Adonis-like predecessor (I know, a Pope? Adonis like?). And, the local sculptor refused to sculpt the papal chubby dwarf in any way but how he looks because the sculptor was on a tantrum filled realist faze of his career (the rest of which he spent in the catacombs of said newly finished basilica). So, while the local finished his career in the basement, another "willing" sculptor sculpted the chubby popes head just in time for the papal inauguration (or whatever they do) and the unveiling of the new statue (fat head - Adonis body) in honor of Pope Fatso. But, Pope Fatto Squatto (as the locals came to call him) died three days later of a massive coronary and during the rush to get a new pope there was no time or interest t sculpt a new statue. So, those two knuckleheads stayed joined at the neck.
I love those kind of stories.
Thank you, God, for giving me my creativity back, as silly as it may be. I love to make stuff up.
Where were we? Oh! Still in Italy. And, then she still has to pray and love! I'm a slow reader. Apparently, that's how Liz reads too. So, we're two peas in completely different pods, at different times in different parts of the world. I'm plodding, contemplative. That's how I go. I even write slow. Stopping a lot for spell check doesn't help. And, I'm easily distracted. I need a haircut. I wonder if I should cut or break the spine of my journal so it makes it easier to write in it. That sounds so cruel and violent. Sometimes, randomness is funny.
Day 15. January 18th, 2012. Choices and Sacrifices
Liz writes, "what are my choices to be? What do I believe that I deserve in this life? Where can I accept sacrifice, and where can I not?" p 83
Her mom is from Minnesota. Ought I listen closely here (because I'm from Minnesota)? Entering into this relationship with my fiancee, ought I ask myself these questions? What am I willing to sacrifice? Where will the compromise be? Where will the "win/win" situations be?
Now, what if I broaden my scope? In my whole life, what are my choices to be? I've made my choice with my fiancee. What about my career? I make a choice every day to get up early and stay up late to write. I guess I'm instilling in myself the discipline to write. As we look for a new apartment, I don't want to budge on my space to write. We squabble from time to time, which comes more out of misunderstanding and fear than anything.
But, I do look forward to these mornings. It brings me a little joy. It's something worthy and worthwhile to wake up to in the mornings. And, it makes me feel worthy and worthwhile. As I get my writing legs, it's going to be clunky. This blog, regardless of my opinion of it, is helping me. I think it's helping me to be more articulate and succinct. It's helping me take the random and make it palatable. It's helping me turn the tangents into straight, logical lines of thought.
So, today I choose to write.
Her mom is from Minnesota. Ought I listen closely here (because I'm from Minnesota)? Entering into this relationship with my fiancee, ought I ask myself these questions? What am I willing to sacrifice? Where will the compromise be? Where will the "win/win" situations be?
Now, what if I broaden my scope? In my whole life, what are my choices to be? I've made my choice with my fiancee. What about my career? I make a choice every day to get up early and stay up late to write. I guess I'm instilling in myself the discipline to write. As we look for a new apartment, I don't want to budge on my space to write. We squabble from time to time, which comes more out of misunderstanding and fear than anything.
But, I do look forward to these mornings. It brings me a little joy. It's something worthy and worthwhile to wake up to in the mornings. And, it makes me feel worthy and worthwhile. As I get my writing legs, it's going to be clunky. This blog, regardless of my opinion of it, is helping me. I think it's helping me to be more articulate and succinct. It's helping me take the random and make it palatable. It's helping me turn the tangents into straight, logical lines of thought.
So, today I choose to write.
Day 14. January 16th, 2012. Acceptance and Torpedoes
Acceptance is not worrying, while living in Rome, about the box of books you mailed to yourself months ago. It may arrive. It may not. I don't think we can take a laissez-faire attitude about our lives. However, we ought not try to control every thing, especially the other people in our lives. Somewhere in the middle seems wise. The two extremes seem selfish. And, Liz wrote (how did I get so familiar with an absolute stranger?), "Still, when I look at myself in the mirror of the best pizzeria in Naples, I see a bright-eyed, clear-skinned, happy and healthy face. I haven't seen that on me for a long time." p 81.
Who of us have seen such a thing in ourselves? Have I? Or, do I see a sour, frowny-faced sot, unjoyful and unhappy with his own life - suffering through the best he can, trying to find happiness while wearing special shoes for waiting tables so he doesn't have to take a bunch of Advil before bed so his throbbing knees don't keep him awake - who, has to now get massages because of a jacked-up back and shoulders? (Hello, run-on sentence. What was I saying?)
Right here, writing, is where I find my moment of joy and pleasure, albeit laced with self-doubt and judgement. However, I still find my way here in the mornings . . . most mornings. Thanks, Liz. Thanks, God. This could merely be the beginning. Be careful, my fantastical mind, lest I be lost to daydreaming and silly fantasy, head in the clouds, but feet 10 feet off the ground. I ought to remember balance.
Having started the blog (finally!) I still think it's stupid, especially my writing. I have shifted the judgement from the idea of a blog on to my writing of it. Now, I know where the true fear lies! But, who am I to question inspiration, an idea that just comes to me? I guess I have to trust it. Even if it's a bad idea, who cares? I still went after it. I'm trying something, anything. That's all we can do to effect change in our lives. Otherwise, we're just sitting around, incessantly complaining that our lives suck. That's not doing anybody any good. My sense of adventure is being tickled awake (is that manly?). I've already embarked on a journey here. I can't turn back. I can't stop. I'll have to see this thing through to the end. Damn the torpedoes (even the ones I shoot at myself, especially the ones I shoot at myself)! full speed ahead!
Who of us have seen such a thing in ourselves? Have I? Or, do I see a sour, frowny-faced sot, unjoyful and unhappy with his own life - suffering through the best he can, trying to find happiness while wearing special shoes for waiting tables so he doesn't have to take a bunch of Advil before bed so his throbbing knees don't keep him awake - who, has to now get massages because of a jacked-up back and shoulders? (Hello, run-on sentence. What was I saying?)
Right here, writing, is where I find my moment of joy and pleasure, albeit laced with self-doubt and judgement. However, I still find my way here in the mornings . . . most mornings. Thanks, Liz. Thanks, God. This could merely be the beginning. Be careful, my fantastical mind, lest I be lost to daydreaming and silly fantasy, head in the clouds, but feet 10 feet off the ground. I ought to remember balance.
Having started the blog (finally!) I still think it's stupid, especially my writing. I have shifted the judgement from the idea of a blog on to my writing of it. Now, I know where the true fear lies! But, who am I to question inspiration, an idea that just comes to me? I guess I have to trust it. Even if it's a bad idea, who cares? I still went after it. I'm trying something, anything. That's all we can do to effect change in our lives. Otherwise, we're just sitting around, incessantly complaining that our lives suck. That's not doing anybody any good. My sense of adventure is being tickled awake (is that manly?). I've already embarked on a journey here. I can't turn back. I can't stop. I'll have to see this thing through to the end. Damn the torpedoes (even the ones I shoot at myself, especially the ones I shoot at myself)! full speed ahead!
Day 13. January 15th, 2012 The Augusteum and the Awe-struck Horse
Caffeine does NOT fuel meditation! Wow! What thoughts! What noise!
Liz writes: "I look at the Augusteum and I think perhaps my life has not actually been so chaotic after all. It is merely this world that is chaotic, bringing changes to us all, that nobody could have anticipated. The Augusteum warns me not to get attached to any obsolete ideas about who I am, what I represent, whom I belong to or what function I may once have intended to serve. Yesterday, I might have been a glorious monument to somebody, true enough - but tomorrow I could be a fireworks depository. Even in the eternal city, says the silent Augesteum, one must always be prepared for riotous and endless waves of transformations" p 75
She's being prepared for her spiritual transformation. The groundwork is being laid. She's learning to accept life on life's terms. "Glorious monument" to "fireworks display" could be her journey after this book. She may have to go back to writing for magazines. The theme, lately, in my life seems to be, "through all this, God has a plan". Even though it may be rough going, God has a plan. So, "Eat, Pray, Love" may be her "glorious monument" to her spiritual transformation. What will be her "fireworks display"? What will be my glorious monument? What will by my fireworks display?
Italy is preparing her for India which is preparing her for Indonesia I suspect. What am I being prepared for right now? (Looking back, I now see what I was being prepared for. It is helpful, almost vital [maybe completely vital] to remember that through all this, God has a plan.) As I do what seems to be the right thing, following the general direction of God's lead, what's next? I don't know. All I can do is set my sails and let God's winds blow me where they will. God has a plan. And, it will be revealed to me as I need to know it (wise words from the fingers of a man who didn't even know how true and poignant they were).
"Next to the arch is a church where you can walk in for free and see the paintings by Canvaggio of St. Paul (so overcome by grace that he has fallen to the ground in holy rapture; not even his horse can believe it) p 73 Bwa ha ha ha ha!
I wonder again what I'm doing here. I wonder what I'm doing with this blog (this poop monster). I don't know. But I'm doing it. It seems like a good idea. It seems like the right thing to do and I don't even know the purpose of it. It could be preparing me for something else. Maybe it could bring people back to books. Maybe it's about sharing ideas (with myself?), openly and freely.
My imagination comes up with all sorts of crazy outcomes: a friendship with the author, the lawyers hunting me down to say I can't write this. I have to let this all go. I have to become willing to accept that absolutely nothing will come out of this. I have to write for writing's sake. I have to be willing to be ok regardless of what happens. Because, I don't know why I'm doing this. I just know I want to do it. I guess that ought to be enough for now. There may be a better reason unbeknownst to me, unrevealed, still mysterious. Hell, it could be a dead end. But, at least I walked down that road.
I want to include my best friend in my book. He has been a great partner in creativity in my life. So, already, I have irons in the fire. What fire? Who knows? But, at least I'm putting irons somewhere rather than up my butt next to my thumb. It's exciting. I race past myself sometimes. All kinds of ideas about my book are coming to me. I'm not going to record them here just in case they get stolen from all the people not reading this.
Maybe, I can actually start my blog (wow! it took me this long to actually just consider starting it!) Well, it's just for me and all my idiosyncrasies, misspellings, bad grammar and mixed metaphors. It's up to God whether it gets read. All I have to do is write it.
Liz writes: "I look at the Augusteum and I think perhaps my life has not actually been so chaotic after all. It is merely this world that is chaotic, bringing changes to us all, that nobody could have anticipated. The Augusteum warns me not to get attached to any obsolete ideas about who I am, what I represent, whom I belong to or what function I may once have intended to serve. Yesterday, I might have been a glorious monument to somebody, true enough - but tomorrow I could be a fireworks depository. Even in the eternal city, says the silent Augesteum, one must always be prepared for riotous and endless waves of transformations" p 75
She's being prepared for her spiritual transformation. The groundwork is being laid. She's learning to accept life on life's terms. "Glorious monument" to "fireworks display" could be her journey after this book. She may have to go back to writing for magazines. The theme, lately, in my life seems to be, "through all this, God has a plan". Even though it may be rough going, God has a plan. So, "Eat, Pray, Love" may be her "glorious monument" to her spiritual transformation. What will be her "fireworks display"? What will be my glorious monument? What will by my fireworks display?
Italy is preparing her for India which is preparing her for Indonesia I suspect. What am I being prepared for right now? (Looking back, I now see what I was being prepared for. It is helpful, almost vital [maybe completely vital] to remember that through all this, God has a plan.) As I do what seems to be the right thing, following the general direction of God's lead, what's next? I don't know. All I can do is set my sails and let God's winds blow me where they will. God has a plan. And, it will be revealed to me as I need to know it (wise words from the fingers of a man who didn't even know how true and poignant they were).
"Next to the arch is a church where you can walk in for free and see the paintings by Canvaggio of St. Paul (so overcome by grace that he has fallen to the ground in holy rapture; not even his horse can believe it) p 73 Bwa ha ha ha ha!
I wonder again what I'm doing here. I wonder what I'm doing with this blog (this poop monster). I don't know. But I'm doing it. It seems like a good idea. It seems like the right thing to do and I don't even know the purpose of it. It could be preparing me for something else. Maybe it could bring people back to books. Maybe it's about sharing ideas (with myself?), openly and freely.
My imagination comes up with all sorts of crazy outcomes: a friendship with the author, the lawyers hunting me down to say I can't write this. I have to let this all go. I have to become willing to accept that absolutely nothing will come out of this. I have to write for writing's sake. I have to be willing to be ok regardless of what happens. Because, I don't know why I'm doing this. I just know I want to do it. I guess that ought to be enough for now. There may be a better reason unbeknownst to me, unrevealed, still mysterious. Hell, it could be a dead end. But, at least I walked down that road.
I want to include my best friend in my book. He has been a great partner in creativity in my life. So, already, I have irons in the fire. What fire? Who knows? But, at least I'm putting irons somewhere rather than up my butt next to my thumb. It's exciting. I race past myself sometimes. All kinds of ideas about my book are coming to me. I'm not going to record them here just in case they get stolen from all the people not reading this.
Maybe, I can actually start my blog (wow! it took me this long to actually just consider starting it!) Well, it's just for me and all my idiosyncrasies, misspellings, bad grammar and mixed metaphors. It's up to God whether it gets read. All I have to do is write it.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Day 12. January 13, 2012. Vafanculo and Attraversiano
I don't think I'll ever forget what the word vafanculo means. "Fuck you!" p 69 - 72.
However, I hope I won't forget a more beautiful phrase: attraversiamo. "Let's cross over". It makes sense for a person who has had a life-changing spiritual experience. In that sense, attraversiamo could mean "let's cross over from the dark into the light, from pain and misery to happiness and joy, from suffering to freedom, from fear to faith, from doubt to hope. One who has had such an experience could reach out their hand to one who who hasn't yet and say, "attraversiamo".
Funny, the last part of that word is "amo". Doesn't that mean, "love"? Like, "Let's cross over with love".
Liz writes about idioms, comparing the American, "I've been there" (makes me think of the parable of the man in the hole) to the Italian, "L'ho pravato sulla mia pelle," which means "I have experience that on my own skin". And, nobody knows crawling skin like an alcoholic. Giovanni's favorite American word is "half-assed" (makes me think of "half measures avail us nothing") Luca Speghetti's is "surrender". Nothing more needs to be said other than that's what seems to happen before one has a spiritual experience.
Liz had a spiritual experience on that one night, that late night spent weeping on her bathroom floor. Surrender sent her back to bed. She listened to the wisdom of God, spoken to her in her own voice, thus making her open and teachable, because more guidance and direction was coming.
I love this: ". . . a grave miscarriage of injustice on the field." That's just good writing. Funny, ironic, well-said.
So, I hate my job. Many others . . . some others . . . enough others say they could be happy anywhere. I heard a joyful woman who was at peace with her life say, "I could be happy anywhere, even working at McDonalds". She seemed to be full of love and peace. So, am I ungrateful? Am I still a selfish, self-centered prick for not appreciating my job, not wanting to grow there or succeed there in the eyes of others? I want to be helpful. At least, I know I ought to want to be helpful. I know for sure I want to be free from the bondage of that job.
So, what am I going to do about it? I have a piece I wrote in December that I have yet to submit to writing contests. I haven't (when this was originally written) pulled the trigger on my blog idea. I've stalled on my book idea.
Do I humble myself or do I begrudgingly go about my tasks? Choice "B". How do I break out of it, the begrudging part? I'm thinking about it all wrong if I think by suffering through my current state, I'm going to get what I want in the end. I ought to keep the faith for God will provide. If we don't like where we are, attraversaimo.
However, I hope I won't forget a more beautiful phrase: attraversiamo. "Let's cross over". It makes sense for a person who has had a life-changing spiritual experience. In that sense, attraversiamo could mean "let's cross over from the dark into the light, from pain and misery to happiness and joy, from suffering to freedom, from fear to faith, from doubt to hope. One who has had such an experience could reach out their hand to one who who hasn't yet and say, "attraversiamo".
Funny, the last part of that word is "amo". Doesn't that mean, "love"? Like, "Let's cross over with love".
Liz writes about idioms, comparing the American, "I've been there" (makes me think of the parable of the man in the hole) to the Italian, "L'ho pravato sulla mia pelle," which means "I have experience that on my own skin". And, nobody knows crawling skin like an alcoholic. Giovanni's favorite American word is "half-assed" (makes me think of "half measures avail us nothing") Luca Speghetti's is "surrender". Nothing more needs to be said other than that's what seems to happen before one has a spiritual experience.
Liz had a spiritual experience on that one night, that late night spent weeping on her bathroom floor. Surrender sent her back to bed. She listened to the wisdom of God, spoken to her in her own voice, thus making her open and teachable, because more guidance and direction was coming.
I love this: ". . . a grave miscarriage of injustice on the field." That's just good writing. Funny, ironic, well-said.
So, I hate my job. Many others . . . some others . . . enough others say they could be happy anywhere. I heard a joyful woman who was at peace with her life say, "I could be happy anywhere, even working at McDonalds". She seemed to be full of love and peace. So, am I ungrateful? Am I still a selfish, self-centered prick for not appreciating my job, not wanting to grow there or succeed there in the eyes of others? I want to be helpful. At least, I know I ought to want to be helpful. I know for sure I want to be free from the bondage of that job.
So, what am I going to do about it? I have a piece I wrote in December that I have yet to submit to writing contests. I haven't (when this was originally written) pulled the trigger on my blog idea. I've stalled on my book idea.
Do I humble myself or do I begrudgingly go about my tasks? Choice "B". How do I break out of it, the begrudging part? I'm thinking about it all wrong if I think by suffering through my current state, I'm going to get what I want in the end. I ought to keep the faith for God will provide. If we don't like where we are, attraversaimo.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Day 11. January 12, 2012. Loneliness and God's hand
Let me start off by saying, "thank you God for even your subtlest of gifts. Perhaps, they are the most profound."
First, I read this: "So, be lonely, Liz. Learn your way through loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it for once in your life. Welcome the human experience. But, never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings." p. 65
That spoke to me, not on the level of loneliness, but on the level of pain. We all want to escape pain. I want to get out of problems, run away from them, instead of experiencing them for what they really are: part of life! Pain, anger, sadness, disappointment, FEAR, and failure, for example, are all part of life. So, be afraid an do the right thing anyway.
THEN, I (seemingly randomly) opened my prayer book which was translated from Rabindranath Togore. I say seemingly randomly because I randomly picked a page. However, I'm learning that nothing happens by mistake in this world. There are no accidents. When it comes to the gifts, the signs, the omens which are revealed by so called random acts, it turns out that randomness is merely an illusion.
Case in point. The prayer I opened to was this:
"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved, but hope for the patience to win my freedom.
Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling Your mercy in my success alone;
But let me feel the grasp of Your hand in my failure."
Too coincidental to be coincidental. So, I need to not only thank God for the gifts in my life, but also for the challenges, the failures, the troubles and the trials. I can also be thankful for the difficult people in my life for somehow, they make me better and stronger, so long as I feel God's hand in mine at the moment.
If I go this alone, or feel like I am alone in this moment, of course I'd feel angry and hurt. Of course I'll take it personally. The conflict with my fiancee was a learning opportunity. I ought to be grateful for that. She taught me something about myself. My over-dependance or over-reliance on some one causes strife. I made her do all the work (the planning for the trip, renting the car, getting the map) which made her cranky. I couldn't see it in the moment. I can see it now. I didn't see at the time how I could have been more helpful and that I played a part in the squabble. Thank you for the clarity, God. Hopefully, in the future, I can change. I'll have some for-thought. I'll not be so consumed with resentment about having had to work six days in a row and with worry about how cranky she's going to be that I'll miss an opportunity to be helpful, which might lead to the easing of said crankiness.
I may screw it up again. But hopefully, I'll feel God's hand in mine as I screw it up. And, I'll go through it. God will lead me where he chooses. I just have to follow his lead.
First, I read this: "So, be lonely, Liz. Learn your way through loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it for once in your life. Welcome the human experience. But, never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings." p. 65
That spoke to me, not on the level of loneliness, but on the level of pain. We all want to escape pain. I want to get out of problems, run away from them, instead of experiencing them for what they really are: part of life! Pain, anger, sadness, disappointment, FEAR, and failure, for example, are all part of life. So, be afraid an do the right thing anyway.
THEN, I (seemingly randomly) opened my prayer book which was translated from Rabindranath Togore. I say seemingly randomly because I randomly picked a page. However, I'm learning that nothing happens by mistake in this world. There are no accidents. When it comes to the gifts, the signs, the omens which are revealed by so called random acts, it turns out that randomness is merely an illusion.
Case in point. The prayer I opened to was this:
"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved, but hope for the patience to win my freedom.
Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling Your mercy in my success alone;
But let me feel the grasp of Your hand in my failure."
Too coincidental to be coincidental. So, I need to not only thank God for the gifts in my life, but also for the challenges, the failures, the troubles and the trials. I can also be thankful for the difficult people in my life for somehow, they make me better and stronger, so long as I feel God's hand in mine at the moment.
If I go this alone, or feel like I am alone in this moment, of course I'd feel angry and hurt. Of course I'll take it personally. The conflict with my fiancee was a learning opportunity. I ought to be grateful for that. She taught me something about myself. My over-dependance or over-reliance on some one causes strife. I made her do all the work (the planning for the trip, renting the car, getting the map) which made her cranky. I couldn't see it in the moment. I can see it now. I didn't see at the time how I could have been more helpful and that I played a part in the squabble. Thank you for the clarity, God. Hopefully, in the future, I can change. I'll have some for-thought. I'll not be so consumed with resentment about having had to work six days in a row and with worry about how cranky she's going to be that I'll miss an opportunity to be helpful, which might lead to the easing of said crankiness.
I may screw it up again. But hopefully, I'll feel God's hand in mine as I screw it up. And, I'll go through it. God will lead me where he chooses. I just have to follow his lead.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Day 10. January 10, 2012 The Beauty of Doing Nothing
Il bel far niente: The beauty of doing nothing. p 61
I can't do it, enjoy doing nothing. Liz had a hard time finding it. We have approached the subject in the same manner: analytically. "How is pleasure most efficiently maximized?" she writes. (p 62) My thinking is the same: "How does one define pleasure? (she and I actually feel the same guilt) Do I actually deserve to enjoy something. Let me ask others how they find and experience pleasure. Do some research. Collect data." Bullshit!
She writes, "All I had to do was ask myself every day, for the first time in my life, "What would you enjoy doing today, Liz? What would bring you pleasure right now?" I ask myself the same questions (except I don't call myself Liz.) The answer is, I'm enjoying this right now. I'm enjoying writing this. Thank you, Liz, for your experience and for sharing it. Maybe I can learn from it. I realize that I actually look forward to reading her story and writing about it every day, despite the stress of my life gripping lightly in my chest.
I wonder why this idea of a blog has come to me. It seems, I don't know, silly, stupid, yet exciting all at the same time. I could write it just for me. (Just for me? Could I?) I could just put my thoughts out there, without advertisement, and if some one happens to stumble upon it, so be it. Then, perhaps, it's meant to be. And, if it, perhaps helps some one else, the way Liz is helping me then so much the better.
Anyway, she's funny. And, I'm liking it.
BLOG is such a sucky word. It's like it's some kind of poop. Or, monster. Blog, the poop monster!
But, it's just for me. So, who cares? It's a place to collect my thoughts, just for my enjoyment and pleasure. Hah! This entry has just come full circle.
I can't do it, enjoy doing nothing. Liz had a hard time finding it. We have approached the subject in the same manner: analytically. "How is pleasure most efficiently maximized?" she writes. (p 62) My thinking is the same: "How does one define pleasure? (she and I actually feel the same guilt) Do I actually deserve to enjoy something. Let me ask others how they find and experience pleasure. Do some research. Collect data." Bullshit!
She writes, "All I had to do was ask myself every day, for the first time in my life, "What would you enjoy doing today, Liz? What would bring you pleasure right now?" I ask myself the same questions (except I don't call myself Liz.) The answer is, I'm enjoying this right now. I'm enjoying writing this. Thank you, Liz, for your experience and for sharing it. Maybe I can learn from it. I realize that I actually look forward to reading her story and writing about it every day, despite the stress of my life gripping lightly in my chest.
I wonder why this idea of a blog has come to me. It seems, I don't know, silly, stupid, yet exciting all at the same time. I could write it just for me. (Just for me? Could I?) I could just put my thoughts out there, without advertisement, and if some one happens to stumble upon it, so be it. Then, perhaps, it's meant to be. And, if it, perhaps helps some one else, the way Liz is helping me then so much the better.
Anyway, she's funny. And, I'm liking it.
BLOG is such a sucky word. It's like it's some kind of poop. Or, monster. Blog, the poop monster!
But, it's just for me. So, who cares? It's a place to collect my thoughts, just for my enjoyment and pleasure. Hah! This entry has just come full circle.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Day 9. January 9th, 2012. Toga
In the midst of the stress of finding an apartment, finding a venue at which to get married, working six days in a row and fighting with my fiancee, I found a little bit of humor: "The culture in Rome just doesn't match the culture of Yoga, not as far as I can see. In fact, I've decided that Rome and Yoga don't have anything in common at all. Except for the way they both kind of remind you of the word toga." p 55
It's like the little spring flower that has sprouted up through a crack in the dirty, garbage riddled, pee stained sidewalk.
Everything else I wrote for today was just more complaining, pure and simple. And, I'm not going to put it here.
Later, I would find a way along the dirt, the garbage and the pee to lush, beautiful, green pastures with some prayer and some guidance from someone much wiser than me . . . and an apology for my part in the argument. It helps to apologize. What a relief!
It's like the little spring flower that has sprouted up through a crack in the dirty, garbage riddled, pee stained sidewalk.
Everything else I wrote for today was just more complaining, pure and simple. And, I'm not going to put it here.
Later, I would find a way along the dirt, the garbage and the pee to lush, beautiful, green pastures with some prayer and some guidance from someone much wiser than me . . . and an apology for my part in the argument. It helps to apologize. What a relief!
Monday, January 23, 2012
Day 8. January 7th, 2012. Loneliness Beats It and I Get The Idea to Write the Blog.
"Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a friend."
I fall asleep holding my notebook pressed against my chest, open to this most recent assurance. In the morning when I wake up, I can still smell a faint trace of Depression's lingering smoke, but he himself is nowhere to be seen. Somewhere during the night, he got up and left. And his buddy Loneliness beat it, too." p 55
Jesus! She's making me weep now, too!? She's talking to that inner voice, where our understanding of God resides. "Saint Teresa called such such divine internal voices 'locutions' - words from the supernatural that enter the mind spontaneously, translated into your own language and offering you heavenly consolation." p 53
I weep because I identify. From her I hear a message of hope. As she escapes from her own bonds, so can I escape from mine. I wonder how many people have read this book and found hope and freedom. Or, did they just find it a lovely, funny, well-written story?
Liz wrote to herself. I used to do that. I thought it silly at the time. Maybe, I'll do it again. Am I friends with myself, yet? Can I find that inner voice that says to me, "I am your friend, undying. I will be with you, always. I will love you, always. So, let's start loving each other, because this has been a one way street for a long while, too long a while for that matter."?
By the way, Elizabeth Gilbert did have regular, old beginnings (nothing close to what my rants imagined a couple of days ago), nothing for my insanity to judge. She went after it. She loved writing and she went after it. She saw the gift and wanted nothing else but to honor and serve that gift. She saw it early on. She didn't get her judgement clouded, hindered, influenced or confused (like I did). But, God gave her a gift and a lot of pain; and recovery from that pain through a personal journey which seems to have touched millions. She's got a voice, an approachable voice, a voice with which one can identify. She's got a voice so she can generously share with others.
And, I'm still not gay. That could be my title: "I'm Still Not Gay. A Man Reads 'Eat, Pray, Love' and Is Changed For the Better." (This is where I get the idea for the blog, thus making the writing of the first bunch of entries retrospective) Should I write a blog? Why would people give shit? Blogs are stupid: "Ha! Look at me! What I have to say is very important!"
I could write an entry a day (the idea was originally for a book, but now it's a blog despite my distaste for them). I am a slow reader. This could take while. "Day 6. This is the day I get the idea to write the blog" (This is also the day where I decide to define what kind of gay reading "Eat, Pray, Love" doesn't make me.)
I fall asleep holding my notebook pressed against my chest, open to this most recent assurance. In the morning when I wake up, I can still smell a faint trace of Depression's lingering smoke, but he himself is nowhere to be seen. Somewhere during the night, he got up and left. And his buddy Loneliness beat it, too." p 55
Jesus! She's making me weep now, too!? She's talking to that inner voice, where our understanding of God resides. "Saint Teresa called such such divine internal voices 'locutions' - words from the supernatural that enter the mind spontaneously, translated into your own language and offering you heavenly consolation." p 53
I weep because I identify. From her I hear a message of hope. As she escapes from her own bonds, so can I escape from mine. I wonder how many people have read this book and found hope and freedom. Or, did they just find it a lovely, funny, well-written story?
Liz wrote to herself. I used to do that. I thought it silly at the time. Maybe, I'll do it again. Am I friends with myself, yet? Can I find that inner voice that says to me, "I am your friend, undying. I will be with you, always. I will love you, always. So, let's start loving each other, because this has been a one way street for a long while, too long a while for that matter."?
By the way, Elizabeth Gilbert did have regular, old beginnings (nothing close to what my rants imagined a couple of days ago), nothing for my insanity to judge. She went after it. She loved writing and she went after it. She saw the gift and wanted nothing else but to honor and serve that gift. She saw it early on. She didn't get her judgement clouded, hindered, influenced or confused (like I did). But, God gave her a gift and a lot of pain; and recovery from that pain through a personal journey which seems to have touched millions. She's got a voice, an approachable voice, a voice with which one can identify. She's got a voice so she can generously share with others.
And, I'm still not gay. That could be my title: "I'm Still Not Gay. A Man Reads 'Eat, Pray, Love' and Is Changed For the Better." (This is where I get the idea for the blog, thus making the writing of the first bunch of entries retrospective) Should I write a blog? Why would people give shit? Blogs are stupid: "Ha! Look at me! What I have to say is very important!"
I could write an entry a day (the idea was originally for a book, but now it's a blog despite my distaste for them). I am a slow reader. This could take while. "Day 6. This is the day I get the idea to write the blog" (This is also the day where I decide to define what kind of gay reading "Eat, Pray, Love" doesn't make me.)
Day 7. January 6th, 2012. Overly Dramatic Melancholy. (Really Uplifting Stuff)
We both have a propensity for melancholy. It feels like things are falling apart right now. Maybe that's a good thing . . . pain on the tails of a good idea. I lost my cell phone and the guys at the store weren't very helpful (actually, they weren't helpful in the way I wanted to be helped. I'm learning there's a difference) Plus, I scratched my grandpa's watch. PLUS, I couldn't start work on my new book idea. What's funny is that I'm feeling pain and melancholy over all this! I'm sure there are homeless people feeling my pain . . . what did I call them? The raped and pillaged? I'm a
melodramatic alcoholic (is that redundant?).
What's just a little funnier is that I thought I'd find something comforting and uplifting in reading about "my new friend" (The relationship is pretty one-sided right now). But, all she talked about was anxiety, depression and contemplated suicide. Thanks, Liz. Thanks for the help.
However, she did make me laugh. The MacDevitt joke and the Hustler joke were funny. She's got a silly sense of humor, like me, sometimes. Now, if I could only write a New York Times best seller, we'd be equals.
It's hard to hear God when my anger and frustration are on fire. I can't hear him through the pain of the crackling flames. Then, off I'll got to work, feeling defeated and depressed, knocked back a step by my own absentmindedness, a depressing book, "Martian Chronicles", probably crowding out my phone from my pocket (As I write this do I realize I'm not only being over-dramatic, but I'm butchering the rules of grammar).
I like Liz's honesty. However, she made depression and loneliness masculine. She made them male agents. Interesting.
It's hard to see past one's own problems. Just because I can't see it doesn't mean life isn't good. God is good to me, as ungrateful and as whiny as I am. Things will work themselves out. They always do. I just need to take the action. The boxes full of my old writings are right next to me. They are the stuff of my book idea. All I have to do is dig and pull them out. Then I'll have done something, something towards my goal to become a writer.
I made a silent vow to myself that if I ever get this book published, I'll quit my job. I want to be an agent of change. I want to help heal the world, not infect it. How I do that is up to God. I guess all I can do is just answer the call . . . and hope it's not a wrong number.
What's just a little funnier is that I thought I'd find something comforting and uplifting in reading about "my new friend" (The relationship is pretty one-sided right now). But, all she talked about was anxiety, depression and contemplated suicide. Thanks, Liz. Thanks for the help.
However, she did make me laugh. The MacDevitt joke and the Hustler joke were funny. She's got a silly sense of humor, like me, sometimes. Now, if I could only write a New York Times best seller, we'd be equals.
It's hard to hear God when my anger and frustration are on fire. I can't hear him through the pain of the crackling flames. Then, off I'll got to work, feeling defeated and depressed, knocked back a step by my own absentmindedness, a depressing book, "Martian Chronicles", probably crowding out my phone from my pocket (As I write this do I realize I'm not only being over-dramatic, but I'm butchering the rules of grammar).
I like Liz's honesty. However, she made depression and loneliness masculine. She made them male agents. Interesting.
It's hard to see past one's own problems. Just because I can't see it doesn't mean life isn't good. God is good to me, as ungrateful and as whiny as I am. Things will work themselves out. They always do. I just need to take the action. The boxes full of my old writings are right next to me. They are the stuff of my book idea. All I have to do is dig and pull them out. Then I'll have done something, something towards my goal to become a writer.
I made a silent vow to myself that if I ever get this book published, I'll quit my job. I want to be an agent of change. I want to help heal the world, not infect it. How I do that is up to God. I guess all I can do is just answer the call . . . and hope it's not a wrong number.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Day 6. Jan 5, 2012 "Complaining and Feeling Sorry for Myself"
It's not fair. She's off frolicking in Italy, exploring Rome and I'm stuck, early in the morning (8:30 am is early for me) in frigid NYC! All she had to do is write a petition to God, name some names, take a nap and ZIP, her husband signs the divorce papers and BING BANG BOOM, she's off to Italy.
Of course, the skeptic in me is protesting, crying, "how can it be so easy?!" God's love is that easy, I guess. Skepticism and doubt - the evil agents of fear. And then I'm doubting my own choices: marriage, moving in with my fiancee. I guess I believe that God gave her to me . . . and He better not be fooling me! This better not be a metaphysical slight of hand! Well, give me upheaval, then!
Liz had to have her spiritual experience. I've had/am having mine. We both had our jumping off points.
Why do adventures always seem to come to people who can afford them? But, did not Liz work to afford her adventures? There must have been a time when she was broke and in school, a time when she was writing for a crappy newspaper. If she's been affluent all her life, I'll be pissed! Then, her story will just be another flight of fancy by a rich person who gets everything they want anyway. All they have to do is want it. "Wah! my husband hates me now and wants all my stuff!" Boo hoo! I'm sure the impoverished, raped and pillaged masses feel your pain. They, too, get their Hudson Valley houses taken away and their TribeCa apartment overlooking the Lincoln Tunnel. One car? Nooo, they had two cars, too!
Now, I'm being obnoxious. Actually, I was being obnoxious a few lines ago. My mind needs to compartmentalize this. It needs to judge her, to tear her down, so my fragile ego feels better. I see miracles every day in recovery, but I can't accept this one? It's too easy! Instead of moving towards a miracle of my own, I judge hers.
It's fear. Fear of wanting it so bad. I did. I do. I want mine so bad I cried. Now, bitterness has crept back in.
I want to look up Liz's bio on-line so I can judge her some more. Then, I can feel justified sitting in this crappy state of uncertainty and (let's call it what it is) fear. I ought to feel more grateful for my job. But, I'm not. So there. There it is.
Of course, the skeptic in me is protesting, crying, "how can it be so easy?!" God's love is that easy, I guess. Skepticism and doubt - the evil agents of fear. And then I'm doubting my own choices: marriage, moving in with my fiancee. I guess I believe that God gave her to me . . . and He better not be fooling me! This better not be a metaphysical slight of hand! Well, give me upheaval, then!
Liz had to have her spiritual experience. I've had/am having mine. We both had our jumping off points.
Why do adventures always seem to come to people who can afford them? But, did not Liz work to afford her adventures? There must have been a time when she was broke and in school, a time when she was writing for a crappy newspaper. If she's been affluent all her life, I'll be pissed! Then, her story will just be another flight of fancy by a rich person who gets everything they want anyway. All they have to do is want it. "Wah! my husband hates me now and wants all my stuff!" Boo hoo! I'm sure the impoverished, raped and pillaged masses feel your pain. They, too, get their Hudson Valley houses taken away and their TribeCa apartment overlooking the Lincoln Tunnel. One car? Nooo, they had two cars, too!
Now, I'm being obnoxious. Actually, I was being obnoxious a few lines ago. My mind needs to compartmentalize this. It needs to judge her, to tear her down, so my fragile ego feels better. I see miracles every day in recovery, but I can't accept this one? It's too easy! Instead of moving towards a miracle of my own, I judge hers.
It's fear. Fear of wanting it so bad. I did. I do. I want mine so bad I cried. Now, bitterness has crept back in.
I want to look up Liz's bio on-line so I can judge her some more. Then, I can feel justified sitting in this crappy state of uncertainty and (let's call it what it is) fear. I ought to feel more grateful for my job. But, I'm not. So there. There it is.
Day 5. Jan 4th, 2012 "Letter to God"
In answer to my questions from yesterday (incredible timing!), I decided to take Liz's friend's advice: "You are part of this universe, Liz (Scott). You are a constituent - you have every entitlement to participate in the actions of the universe, and to let your feelings be known. So put your opinion out there. Make your case. Believe me - it will at least be taken into consideration." p. 32
And, like Liz, I wrote a letter to God:
Dear God,
I humbly request your assistance. I propose to you in your infinite wisdom and your beautiful universe that I write full time. I feel that while at my job, even though I'm trying to follow your principles, I'm failing at contributing positively to life. I am being corrosive. At work I feel like I'm a standard sized cog in a metric machine. I slip. I often work well and sort of fit. But, I slip. And, the slipping is stripping me away.
Let's be honest here God. You've been giving me ideas, good ideas, crazy ideas and creative ideas. I can't see right now how I can fully pursue those ideas with the time I'm allowed. I don't feel I'm healthily contributing to this world, this universe, this body of life the best I could. And, it is my understanding, as being a part of this body of life, that I can make specific requests in this matter. So if you could see fit to aid me in being the artist you created me to be, I'd greatly appreciate it.
Yours truly, and humbly, and sincerely,
with love,
Scott MacKenzie
Her letter was better. Perhaps she was more desperate . . . or just more articulate.
Of course, the doubts are setting in. But, "begin where you are" says another book I'm reading. The letter Liz wrote seems like a message, an omen, something too coincidental to be coincidental. Consider the following: Mom reads a book, a non-christian spiritual book and gives it to me, her son, a man, who now has to read the feminine, feel-good, self-actualizing book of the century. Reluctantly, I look past my insecurities and read it anyway. I reason that at least it will give me a level on which my mom and I can relate. Then, I get to the above noted section in the book, on the tails of a sleepless night caused by the idea of writing a book! Well, it seemed miraculous to me.
So, God, if you don't want me to write these things, stop giving me crazy ideas! No. Keep them coming.
In addendum:
If this idea that kept me up for hours is a good one, I humbly request your assistance in bringing the idea to fruition.
Thank you.
And, like Liz, I wrote a letter to God:
Dear God,
I humbly request your assistance. I propose to you in your infinite wisdom and your beautiful universe that I write full time. I feel that while at my job, even though I'm trying to follow your principles, I'm failing at contributing positively to life. I am being corrosive. At work I feel like I'm a standard sized cog in a metric machine. I slip. I often work well and sort of fit. But, I slip. And, the slipping is stripping me away.
Let's be honest here God. You've been giving me ideas, good ideas, crazy ideas and creative ideas. I can't see right now how I can fully pursue those ideas with the time I'm allowed. I don't feel I'm healthily contributing to this world, this universe, this body of life the best I could. And, it is my understanding, as being a part of this body of life, that I can make specific requests in this matter. So if you could see fit to aid me in being the artist you created me to be, I'd greatly appreciate it.
Yours truly, and humbly, and sincerely,
with love,
Scott MacKenzie
Her letter was better. Perhaps she was more desperate . . . or just more articulate.
Of course, the doubts are setting in. But, "begin where you are" says another book I'm reading. The letter Liz wrote seems like a message, an omen, something too coincidental to be coincidental. Consider the following: Mom reads a book, a non-christian spiritual book and gives it to me, her son, a man, who now has to read the feminine, feel-good, self-actualizing book of the century. Reluctantly, I look past my insecurities and read it anyway. I reason that at least it will give me a level on which my mom and I can relate. Then, I get to the above noted section in the book, on the tails of a sleepless night caused by the idea of writing a book! Well, it seemed miraculous to me.
So, God, if you don't want me to write these things, stop giving me crazy ideas! No. Keep them coming.
In addendum:
If this idea that kept me up for hours is a good one, I humbly request your assistance in bringing the idea to fruition.
Thank you.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Day 4. Jan 3, 2012 "Pleasure and Prayer"
Pleasure. It evokes a negative reaction in me. To me, it equals self-indulgence: "I'm such a delicious human being. I want to feel delicious all the time".
But, she talks about learning to balance pleasure and devotion. What is pleasure? Indulging the senses? I've been told that feelings are the least important things. Am I ashamed of pleasure? Do these things, pleasurable things bring me joy? A well-cut card or a nice piece of paper? My grandfather's watch? My desk? A good cup of coffee?
If these things weren't meant to aid in our joy or happiness, then why are they here? Granted, they all have practical functions, but aren't they part of God's love? Aren't they agents, vessels as much as I am? Maybe I don't know what real joy, real happiness or real pleasure is, because I've only known selfishness, self-centeredness, self-indulgence.
Why do people only think of the Easterners as the truly spiritual? Have we Westerners really screwed it up that much? What if there existed a place, a culture where spirituality, science and government coexisted? This question came to me earlier, but it was rekindled by "Martian Chronicles". I don't want Miss Gilbert to take all the credit. Ha! Like a New York Times Best Seller would care about my musings here!
There could still be separation of Church and State. But, spirituality, not religion, could be brought into every day life. People could be given the freedom to worship, pray or meditate how they will, but keeping organized religion out of it, Everyone could see the benefit of a higher power, but they wouldn't define it for another human being. It would be up to each individual. Or, they can choose agnosticism or atheism if they wish. But, government officials could not dictate to the citizens what God they ought to pray to, if they choose to pray at all.
It might look something like this: A public elementary school teacher gives 10 to 20 minutes quiet time before the start of each class, guiding a morning prayer and meditation.
With an open, kind, loving, giving mind, no other religious practice is threatening to anybody. We ought to spread the word of God. He doesn't tell us to spread the word of Scott, or the word of the Missouri Synod, or Luther or Christianity. He says to spread the word in all His books. He doesn't tell us to argue amongst ourselves as to which book is the right book, or the true word. Nor, does He tell us to preach to others and bend them to our will. You can carry the message, but you can't guarantee its delivery.
How can I say a selfless prayer? When asking for something, even something altruistic, I'm assuming I know what I, some one else or the world needs. And, I don't. So, what do I say in prayer? How do I ask without asking? Do I pray that I can be taught? Guided in God's ways? Do I pray to be more giving, kind, patient . . . I'm frustrated. Maybe, I'm just rebelling against prayer.
God's going to do what God's going to do with or without me. He's going to give me guidance whether I want it or not.
I guess all you can just do the best you can, with an open mind and an open heart . . . with "four feet firmly planted on the ground and foliage coming out of your head and a smile in your heart."
Later that night, I couldn't sleep, because I got an idea for a book. Couldn't the idea see I had to work a double the next day? It wouldn't leave me alone. So I had to write it down. Creative ideas that keep you awake at night should be written down. They are gifts from God.
Plus, something tells me I ought to thank Liz some day (yes, we're that familiar now).
But, she talks about learning to balance pleasure and devotion. What is pleasure? Indulging the senses? I've been told that feelings are the least important things. Am I ashamed of pleasure? Do these things, pleasurable things bring me joy? A well-cut card or a nice piece of paper? My grandfather's watch? My desk? A good cup of coffee?
If these things weren't meant to aid in our joy or happiness, then why are they here? Granted, they all have practical functions, but aren't they part of God's love? Aren't they agents, vessels as much as I am? Maybe I don't know what real joy, real happiness or real pleasure is, because I've only known selfishness, self-centeredness, self-indulgence.
Why do people only think of the Easterners as the truly spiritual? Have we Westerners really screwed it up that much? What if there existed a place, a culture where spirituality, science and government coexisted? This question came to me earlier, but it was rekindled by "Martian Chronicles". I don't want Miss Gilbert to take all the credit. Ha! Like a New York Times Best Seller would care about my musings here!
There could still be separation of Church and State. But, spirituality, not religion, could be brought into every day life. People could be given the freedom to worship, pray or meditate how they will, but keeping organized religion out of it, Everyone could see the benefit of a higher power, but they wouldn't define it for another human being. It would be up to each individual. Or, they can choose agnosticism or atheism if they wish. But, government officials could not dictate to the citizens what God they ought to pray to, if they choose to pray at all.
It might look something like this: A public elementary school teacher gives 10 to 20 minutes quiet time before the start of each class, guiding a morning prayer and meditation.
With an open, kind, loving, giving mind, no other religious practice is threatening to anybody. We ought to spread the word of God. He doesn't tell us to spread the word of Scott, or the word of the Missouri Synod, or Luther or Christianity. He says to spread the word in all His books. He doesn't tell us to argue amongst ourselves as to which book is the right book, or the true word. Nor, does He tell us to preach to others and bend them to our will. You can carry the message, but you can't guarantee its delivery.
How can I say a selfless prayer? When asking for something, even something altruistic, I'm assuming I know what I, some one else or the world needs. And, I don't. So, what do I say in prayer? How do I ask without asking? Do I pray that I can be taught? Guided in God's ways? Do I pray to be more giving, kind, patient . . . I'm frustrated. Maybe, I'm just rebelling against prayer.
God's going to do what God's going to do with or without me. He's going to give me guidance whether I want it or not.
I guess all you can just do the best you can, with an open mind and an open heart . . . with "four feet firmly planted on the ground and foliage coming out of your head and a smile in your heart."
Later that night, I couldn't sleep, because I got an idea for a book. Couldn't the idea see I had to work a double the next day? It wouldn't leave me alone. So I had to write it down. Creative ideas that keep you awake at night should be written down. They are gifts from God.
Plus, something tells me I ought to thank Liz some day (yes, we're that familiar now).
Day 3. Jan 2, 2012 "Allah or Ole!"
Great! She talks about ugly divorces, lovers and break-ups. Just what my already sick, selfish fantasy mind needs! What if my fiancee gets addicted to the romanticism in our relationship? How about if it is such that our life doesn't stop being romantic? That's more work than one man can muster . . . isn't it?
Somehow, through all the tragedy she writes about, there is a glimmer of God, a beacon of God. She talks about how her own voice was the calming voice, the quiet, wise voice of God. "Deep down inside every man woman and child is an understanding of God". She didn't write that. Bill Wilson did.
So, God talks to us, through us. We are vessels. God feeds my creativity. All I have to do is let Him. And, maybe, someday, I'll have a crystal moment of knowing, touching, seeing God and people will shout, "Allah" (from her talk on creativity at the TED conference) . . . maybe, on my death bed.
I can only hope and pray that God continues to make me creative. I can see that I must do my part. And, I haven't done my part, at least consistently. I'll keep trying and one day, harmony will find me.
Somehow, through all the tragedy she writes about, there is a glimmer of God, a beacon of God. She talks about how her own voice was the calming voice, the quiet, wise voice of God. "Deep down inside every man woman and child is an understanding of God". She didn't write that. Bill Wilson did.
So, God talks to us, through us. We are vessels. God feeds my creativity. All I have to do is let Him. And, maybe, someday, I'll have a crystal moment of knowing, touching, seeing God and people will shout, "Allah" (from her talk on creativity at the TED conference) . . . maybe, on my death bed.
I can only hope and pray that God continues to make me creative. I can see that I must do my part. And, I haven't done my part, at least consistently. I'll keep trying and one day, harmony will find me.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Day 2. 12/30/11 "A Magnificent God"
"I believe in a magnificent God," she writes. And, what I'm about to write isn't going to make much sense. Good luck!
I have found a way to judge and relate to the same person, within a minute of each other.
Also, she has seemed to cause a patient, non-judgmental self-reflection, a conversation about myself (my favorite topic). The judgement comes from me and my selfishness . . . that which I felt for her and her participation in her marriage (what the hell am I talking about? Stupid stream of consciousness writing).
She talked about the "transcendants". Those who, despite the limits of their humanness, had come to know God. Transcendants. Remember that word. That could be the name, or languages best feeble attempt at a name for a character in a sci fi screen play I'm working on. I won't write it here, lest it be stolen. However, if you've made it this far, perhaps you ought to steel my title. That would serve me for making you sit through this blog.
Transcendants. Or Messangers. They're in between this world and the next. Teachers? Nurses? Sons and Daughters of God? But, they have grown to this position, this evolutionary, spiritual place. Nobody knows why or how. They've just accepted what is and deal accordingly. They cannot be medically explained or scientifically proven. But, the people of that planet have come to accept them on faith. Do they believe in a God? A Supreme Being? A Supreme Energy? Supreme Magnificence? "All That is One". Is there an ancient word for that? A variation of "Maktub" for example. That means "it is written". He Who Writes All?
God. Maybe that is simply how our hero's translator would translate it (translator micro, nano, smaller than nanochip, chip).
Every species, every culture has a name for a supreme being. Language is to limited, the chip is too limited. Even in the most advance species in the galaxy, they still can't invent an acceptable word for God. Maybe, when they're injecting the chip, they need to ask our hero (because of the limitations of the translator) to use his own word for God . . . and Love, because these are personal words and can't be easily translated. And, since this will be his chip and his translation, he gets to choose the words. He has to think fast, fortunately. No opportunity to overthink is good for him . . . and me.
Direct inspiration in the time of need. Somehow that will have meaning later.
Keep an open mind as this woman discusses, with honesty, her life and her experience, the best she can. Don't put too much weight or responsibility on her. After all, she's just a human.
I have found a way to judge and relate to the same person, within a minute of each other.
Also, she has seemed to cause a patient, non-judgmental self-reflection, a conversation about myself (my favorite topic). The judgement comes from me and my selfishness . . . that which I felt for her and her participation in her marriage (what the hell am I talking about? Stupid stream of consciousness writing).
She talked about the "transcendants". Those who, despite the limits of their humanness, had come to know God. Transcendants. Remember that word. That could be the name, or languages best feeble attempt at a name for a character in a sci fi screen play I'm working on. I won't write it here, lest it be stolen. However, if you've made it this far, perhaps you ought to steel my title. That would serve me for making you sit through this blog.
Transcendants. Or Messangers. They're in between this world and the next. Teachers? Nurses? Sons and Daughters of God? But, they have grown to this position, this evolutionary, spiritual place. Nobody knows why or how. They've just accepted what is and deal accordingly. They cannot be medically explained or scientifically proven. But, the people of that planet have come to accept them on faith. Do they believe in a God? A Supreme Being? A Supreme Energy? Supreme Magnificence? "All That is One". Is there an ancient word for that? A variation of "Maktub" for example. That means "it is written". He Who Writes All?
God. Maybe that is simply how our hero's translator would translate it (translator micro, nano, smaller than nanochip, chip).
Every species, every culture has a name for a supreme being. Language is to limited, the chip is too limited. Even in the most advance species in the galaxy, they still can't invent an acceptable word for God. Maybe, when they're injecting the chip, they need to ask our hero (because of the limitations of the translator) to use his own word for God . . . and Love, because these are personal words and can't be easily translated. And, since this will be his chip and his translation, he gets to choose the words. He has to think fast, fortunately. No opportunity to overthink is good for him . . . and me.
Direct inspiration in the time of need. Somehow that will have meaning later.
Keep an open mind as this woman discusses, with honesty, her life and her experience, the best she can. Don't put too much weight or responsibility on her. After all, she's just a human.
Day 1. 12/29/11
Two days.
So, I read the first few pages of Eat, Pray, Love and all I can think about is first: this woman is rather funny and, second: she was, well, my age when she wrote this (wait, 2006 . . . I was 32. Ok. Three years older than me). What was I doing then? What was I doing when I was 35, for that matter? What am I doing now, now that I'm 3 years older than when she wrote the book?
Nothing, I tell myself. She wrote a best seller, and I, well I work at a steak house. I'm a waiter.
Perhaps, what I'm lacking here is faith and a healthy respect for my alcoholism and sobriety. One is a killer and the other is a God-send, a life saver.
So, 2006: The Red Sox won the World Series. I did a "version" of MacBeth (The M Game. Just in case some one stumbles across this blog and gives a shit). I was seeing the woman who is now my fiancee. I was still getting drunk a lot. Though, the worst was yet to come.
But, how far have I come? Despite my best efforts of selfishness, my fiancee's and my relationship has been repaired. I'm sober. I'm helping men get and stay sober. However, it seems to me, they would have gotten sober with or without me. So, certainly, I can make no claim on their sobriety. I guess all I can do is thank God for sending them to me for they are my teachers. Trying to help the lost find their way home (as I was shown the way home) is all I can do.
So, before I get even further off topic and stray into deep, yawn-inducing self-reflection and self-pity I'll make a note of gratitude for what I have, what I've come up against and the people who are now in my life. Oh, and nothing happens in God's world by mistake. That's a good one. Time to get ready for work.
So, I read the first few pages of Eat, Pray, Love and all I can think about is first: this woman is rather funny and, second: she was, well, my age when she wrote this (wait, 2006 . . . I was 32. Ok. Three years older than me). What was I doing then? What was I doing when I was 35, for that matter? What am I doing now, now that I'm 3 years older than when she wrote the book?
Nothing, I tell myself. She wrote a best seller, and I, well I work at a steak house. I'm a waiter.
Perhaps, what I'm lacking here is faith and a healthy respect for my alcoholism and sobriety. One is a killer and the other is a God-send, a life saver.
So, 2006: The Red Sox won the World Series. I did a "version" of MacBeth (The M Game. Just in case some one stumbles across this blog and gives a shit). I was seeing the woman who is now my fiancee. I was still getting drunk a lot. Though, the worst was yet to come.
But, how far have I come? Despite my best efforts of selfishness, my fiancee's and my relationship has been repaired. I'm sober. I'm helping men get and stay sober. However, it seems to me, they would have gotten sober with or without me. So, certainly, I can make no claim on their sobriety. I guess all I can do is thank God for sending them to me for they are my teachers. Trying to help the lost find their way home (as I was shown the way home) is all I can do.
So, before I get even further off topic and stray into deep, yawn-inducing self-reflection and self-pity I'll make a note of gratitude for what I have, what I've come up against and the people who are now in my life. Oh, and nothing happens in God's world by mistake. That's a good one. Time to get ready for work.
Prologue 12/27/11
For Christmas, my mom gave me the book, Eat, Pray, Love. To me, reading it seems kind of, well, gay. Not having sex with another man "gay". I know, "what other kind of "gay" is there?" Well, I'll tell you. The kind of "gay" I'm talking about was the name we aggressive, insecure little boys called each other back when we were children; before we had any idea of sexuality, back when girls still had germs, back when we really had no idea what we were talking about, when we didn't know that saying, "you're gay" would actually hurt a grown-ups feelings (hurt anyone for that matter, other than the other little boy who fell victim to the seized opportunity to call him "gay"). Pansy, wimp, girl, baby never seemed to cut it. And, I can't think of a better word to use to describe my feelings when it comes to reading this book.
HOWEVER, all that fear and insensitive language aside, I've decided to give Eat, Pray, Love a read, because something occurred to me: My mom gave the book to me as a gift . . . for a reason. And, the book meant something to her. Now, she and I don't relate on too many levels. But, here's a level on which we can perhaps relate: The spiritual. Since recovering from alcoholism, I've sought out a spiritual path. Perhaps there's something in this book for me. If nothing else, it could give my mom and I something to talk about. We could share ideas as well as books. And, maybe, it could help us get to know each other a little better.
I don't want to read it in public, because I still care too much what people think about me. So, I'll read it in private . . . maybe part of my morning meditation practice . . . maybe there will be something inspirational in it. Let's see how many days I procrastinate.
I must make a note here that some of this blog is written after the fact. I don't know why I got this idea to not only read Eat, Pray, Love, but why I also got the idea to comment on it as I go. Some of the commentary goes off on tangents. I'm including said tangents because sometimes Ms. Gilbert inspired me to think creatively or spiritually about other aspects of my life. And, inspiration is the greatest gift, I think, one artist can give to another. So, I guess this blog is not so much about me reading the book and writing about it, but more about me reading the book and writing about the affect it has on me.
HOWEVER, all that fear and insensitive language aside, I've decided to give Eat, Pray, Love a read, because something occurred to me: My mom gave the book to me as a gift . . . for a reason. And, the book meant something to her. Now, she and I don't relate on too many levels. But, here's a level on which we can perhaps relate: The spiritual. Since recovering from alcoholism, I've sought out a spiritual path. Perhaps there's something in this book for me. If nothing else, it could give my mom and I something to talk about. We could share ideas as well as books. And, maybe, it could help us get to know each other a little better.
I don't want to read it in public, because I still care too much what people think about me. So, I'll read it in private . . . maybe part of my morning meditation practice . . . maybe there will be something inspirational in it. Let's see how many days I procrastinate.
I must make a note here that some of this blog is written after the fact. I don't know why I got this idea to not only read Eat, Pray, Love, but why I also got the idea to comment on it as I go. Some of the commentary goes off on tangents. I'm including said tangents because sometimes Ms. Gilbert inspired me to think creatively or spiritually about other aspects of my life. And, inspiration is the greatest gift, I think, one artist can give to another. So, I guess this blog is not so much about me reading the book and writing about it, but more about me reading the book and writing about the affect it has on me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)