"Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!"

Another point my writer-friend mentioned that struck a chord in my heart was the idea of noise and specifically whether we should be adding to it.  That is a question I have often asked myself on a conscious and subconscious level.

There is so much writing out there on the interweb.  People have written so many blog posts that you could spend decades reading them.  Then there are all the online messages, email correspondences, magazines, good old-fashioned books, and on and on....  Every now and again I try to catch up on my reading and I realize how futile it is.  I will never be able to read enough.  Maybe if I could get a job reading it would be possible, but the odds of finding someone to pay me to do such a thing are about as good as being able to build an amazing full-size schooner solely out of toothpicks.

All that potential seems overwhelming.  It begins to feel just like noise.

So why in the face of such noise should I do anything that might add to it?  After all it seems a little presumptuous to assume that I could contribute something of substantial enough merit to warrant the effort.

Yet who am I to say that I have not the competence?  We are not actually very good judges of ourselves or our own skills.  As Sir Thomas More put it in Robert Bolt's wonderful play A Man For All Seasons: "This is not the stuff of which martyrs are made."  He then goes on to become precisely that despite his best efforts to save his life and still remain true to his conscience.

Why should we not be equally poor prophets of our own future?  We may say that our writing is futile, that it is like dry shriveled leaves tossed about in the wind or some other suitably melancholic metaphor, but how do we know that it will not move someone's heart?

We like to think that we are good judges and that we know what will come of our work.  Yet many authors scorn the works that we consider their masterpieces.  It is a strange paradox.

It is almost as if there is some other power at work....

Approbation

Would it surprise you if I told you that I write on this blog solely in order to receive the approbation of my readers?  Would it surprise you if I told you that one kind comment could fuel several future posts here, a general feeling of well-being, and a belief that maybe I can actually be a successful writer?

Even if that is not wholly true, it is a little too near the truth for comfort's sake.

I mentioned in conversation the other day how much we artists seem to need that approval.  The response I received was that this fact does not apply only to artists.  Certainly that is true, for it is after all a very human trait.  Perhaps the difference for artists lies elsewhere: it is not that artists need approbation from others more than other humans, but that we are more willing to admit that we need it.  We can excuse that need as a natural consequence of creating for others.  It thereby sounds somehow less selfish and therefore more publicly acceptable.  There again we hide behind the mask of truth.

As I began to ponder that need for praise and recognition, I took up my directing book to read another chapter.  (The book, for those who are curious, is A Sense of Directing: Some Observations on the Art of Directing, by William Ball.)  There I found the idea of needing recognition, as applies specifically to actors, accentuated in quite strong language:

"Each actor who enters the profession carries with him from childhood a starvation for approbation.  As he grows older, he finds that acting is a socially acceptable form of doing something in hope of getting the kind of approval that he missed in his childhood.  A director understands that to an actor praise is like food.  The actor cannot live without it, cannot flourish without it."

It would be nice to pretend that the need for attention from others was somehow restricted to actors, or even to artists, as somehow that makes it less personal—because it is about the profession and not the person.  Yet if we are strictly honest with ourselves, we know that is a lie.  Our need arises from a deep reality of human nature: from the fact that we are not individuals, that we cannot truthfully sing out, "I am a rock, I am an island," but must rather recognize that we need others.  We are made for community.

I would extrapolate further that we find our need for approbation from others to be greatest where we find the least community.  When we live in a society broken apart from the root of true community life, we must seek ever harder to fill the hole left behind.  We connive our way into getting "likes" on Facebook, take "selfies" to show off our good looks, collect friends we have never met, haunt online forums where we can pretend to be experts on whatever topic we choose, produce clever 140 character tweets, and so on.  All of these things create a physical response as the brain produces dopamine, telling us that this is pleasurable.  They do not require much risk, but neither does the fruit last.  Only a few seconds or minutes later, we need another dopamine response, and another and another and another....

The alternative?  Someone brought to my attention that a good portion of land in Todi, Italy, was up for sale for a fairly reasonable price.  We could go and found a community there, live it out with all of its challenging and gritty details, and see which brings lasting peace.  Any takers?

Why Can't Humans Be More Like Spock?

Me: Why can't humans be more like Spock?

What in the Klingon Empire would've made them cry
Over something so paltry and small?
What could've depressed them,
What could've possessed them?
I cannot understand the wretches at all.
Humans are irrational, that's all there is to that!
Their heads are full of feelings and dramatics!
They're nothing but emoting, simpering,
grieving, sighing, whimpering,
sorrowing, maddening fanatics!

Socrates, why can't humans be more like Spock?

Socrates: I beg your pardon?

Me: Yes...
Why can't humans be more like Spock?
Spock is so careful, so neurological,
Eternally right, elementally logical,
Who, when you fight, will always show you what's true.
Why can't humans be more like Spock?

Why does every one do what the others do?
Can't the humans learn to use their heads?
Why do they do everything their parents do?
Why don't they grow up—well, like computers instead?
Why can't the humans take after Spock?
Spock is so reasonable, so predictable,
Whenever you're with him, you needn't fear.

Would he be slighted if I didn't speak for hours?

Socrates: Of course not!

Me: Would he be livid if I looked at him wrong?

Socrates: Nonsense.

Me: Would he be wounded if I never sent him flowers?

Socrates: Never!

Me: Well, why can't humans be more like Spock?

--

Dear readers, you must excuse me for that rather long and perhaps not so very clever parody (I hope you recognize its source), but it was so terribly much fun.  Also, it provides an apt introduction to my current topic: the matter of emotions.

Perhaps it is an entirely too personal topic at present, but I think I shall dare once more to do what the aforementioned (as in the last post) writer-friend of mine describes so perfectly.  I shall take all of the rawness, all of that vulnerable humanity, place it out where anyone may look at it should he so choose, and thereby hide myself.  In his words (and follow the link if you want to read more) about the use of words:

"...I am so frightened of being seen behind them, that I arrange them in ways that hide me too. In anything you see me write, you see me — whole and unbroken. But I am scared, so I’ve hidden myself among precisely painted lines spread out over huge canvases. I’m hoping it’ll make me a little less vulnerable." 

It is amazing to me how cleverly one can reveal one's deepest feelings and fears and yet remain perfectly concealed.  Often I find that all I need to do is substitute a plural first person pronoun instead of the singular and a deep, personal thought becomes a common statement of reality taken for granted.  It seems trite, unoriginal, and therefore scarcely worth a second glance.  What I can't say of myself, I can say of the whole of humanity.  I gain release of the built-up fears and emotions hidden behind the layers of walls and yet I remain behind the mask.

Emotions are such a strange thing.  Ultimately they seem to be the very warp of the fabric of vulnerability.  Hide your emotions and you hide your vulnerability.  Hide your vulnerability and you cannot be hurt.

Years of small disappointments and seeming carelessness on the part of others led me to build up such walls—walls that formed a defense of mistrust so sure that none could penetrate them with battering rams or kind words.  Something happened to change that.  It started with one persistent enough to gain trust.  Others came afterward and various characters and events and theatre and the walls began to crumble....

Vulnerability is lovable said my dear professor of theatre.  I didn't believe him quite.  At least I didn't believe him that my vulnerability was lovable; I hated it.  The vulnerability of others certainly made them lovable, as it revealed them as humans in need of love and support and not bastions of inimitable skill and unsurpassable rightness.  Maybe my vulnerability would make me lovable to others, but not to me.  And somehow we perfectionist types care less about what others think than about what we ourselves believe.

Sometimes I allow myself to be vulnerable these days.  Sometimes I even love myself for it.

Yet then there are the times when a piercing dart wounds that soft inner core.  It threatens to undo all the practice of allowing vulnerability.  I question: why does love have to hurt?

A wounded animal retreats from the world and hides itself until it has healed lest it should become prey to some hungry predator.  The instinctive response to hide oneself behind walls after being hurt thus has a perfectly natural origin.

I have heard often through my life that pain can lead to hardness of heart or to compassion.  The instinctive response—the natural one—is to steel oneself against all further attacks and build up wall upon wall to save the heart—that vulnerable (able to be wounded, as directly translated from the Latin) part—from future pain.  If this is natural and nature is good, then why should one choose differently?

We seem to admire that which is not natural.  (Take skyscrapers and movies for instance.)  Yet perhaps I may be so bold as even to say that we admire what is supernatural.

It is natural to build up walls, but supernatural to remain soft.  It is natural to save ourselves from pain and supernatural to choose to be hurt out of love.  It is natural for me to run from emotions and relationships that cause me heartache, but supernatural to remain at peace therein, trusting that good will come from constant effort to love.

I suppose the only conclusion that I can draw from the above ramblings on emotion and our human response thereto is this one: Spock is less than human.

The logic: if supernatural means above nature (as it does; see the Latin) and Spock can never choose to be vulnerable (it not being in his nature to have emotions in the first place), then he can never choose the supernatural path.  Since humans can choose to act supernaturally, they therefore are superior to Spock.

That is the head's response to the heart's question.  Yet which is ultimately more satisfying?

When it comes to art, I have absolutely no doubts about the answer.  I want to find in literature, in drama, in music, in all the arts, the pain, the heartache, and the loneliness that I would never bear in daily life.  Great art requires it.

However, when I must put my raw self into my art, I hesitate.  Somehow I carefully conceal myself while pouring out what I believe are my deepest feelings, but which fail to touch the deepest core I have hidden.  Maybe I have hidden it even from myself.  Maybe I must learn to live with that vulnerability—as both my director reading and spiritual reading these days suggest—before I can bring it forth in my art.

Alternatively, I could choose the path of logic and reason.  In short, I could try to be like Spock.

Could Spock ever be a great artist?

The Roads Not Taken

Throughout my life I have referred fondly to the road less traveled by, either for purposes of adventure while following trails through the forest, or, more personally, to refer to the winding road that I have taken through my life.  Lately, I have been thinking much about all those other roads, the ones I have not taken.  One of those roads is the one leading to prolific blog posts.  I was thinking about that particularly after an old friend of mine who is a fellow writer posted some of his rambling thoughts on writing that struck several chords in my heart.  He made me want to write again.  So this post owes its existence somewhat indirectly to him (thank you, my friend), even though I likely will not actually comment upon those elements that struck me; that I will leave for future posts.

For now, I want to reflect upon how that sense of the roads not taken often darkens the present.  Sometimes we get so caught up in fretting over skills not learned, places not seen, friends not made, and so many not-things, un-things one might say, that we can mire ourselves deeper and deeper into a place of dissatisfaction and despondency rather like the pit of despair.

Here there comes to mind some lyrics from a beautiful song of which I first heard through a wonderful musician I know; it is called Song of Sacrifice and here is a particularly stirring verse:

And the things you love begin to fade
Though you try to hold on
As you grip the sands with aging hands
Til all that's left is gone....

Not a particularly cheerful outlook on life, but so often true.  So many times I try to cling to things from the past, but they slip from my hands like the sands mentioned in that song.  Sometimes the thought of all those things lost, and all those un-things, make me think I might as well give up.  Today, though, I reflect that my focus on those things makes me forget that one powerfully present thing which is the road that I have actually taken, the road less traveled by.  There is great beauty on that road, perhaps greater beauty than upon those not taken.  If only I can learn to see it through all of the pain and heartache and un-things....

I hope whoever stumbles upon this blog will find here an encouragement to live more fully in the here, in the now, in the kaleidoscopic glory of the present moment.  Here's to the present, my dear readers, whomever you may be!

This Novel-Writing Thing

So, I said I had decided to aim for that lovely goal of writing a 50,000 word novel within the month of November.  It started out beautifully: the idea came and began to flow as the characters took life and I wrote the 1,667 words I needed a day, enjoying the surprises happening as the plot began to form itself.

I am still writing, but my measly contributions of a few hundred words to the word-count mean that I am seriously behind.  The problem is neither lack of desire or inspiration, but simply time.  It is difficult to work long show days and still have time to write.

Thus I have a quandary: what do I do?

It is incredibly difficult for me not to do what I have set out to do.  Hence I would rather not abandon my goal.  Yet perhaps I ought to put my energy into other projects and let this novel grow more slowly.  Is there any great advantage to writing another novel to add to my files of interesting-but-not-at-all-worth-publishing-and-maybe-not-even-worth-reading works?  I am not sure yet.

There is certainly worth in practicing my writing of fiction, something I have done not much in the past few years.  I do want to see where this story goes.

Still the question remains: should I force myself on to the end and to complete the 50,000 words within this month of which only twelve days remain?

NaNoWriMo 2015

I was not going to participate in National Novel Writing Month this year.  After all, it takes an incredible amount of time and I have not been able to do so for the last several years for that same reason, so it seemed a reasonable decision.  I even vaguely considered not participating as an opposition to the month in which it was chosen or the fact that so many people out there are writing bunk because they can.  Yet somehow the challenge of writing 50,000 words in one month is too much for a writer.

It is a little strange to me to be defining myself once again by the term writer since for several years I was a theatre artist first.  Now I am sinking back again into the old knowledge of writing and the ideas are coming....

So what else can one do when faced with the NaNoWriMo challenge and an idea that just happens to come at the right time?  I said yes, of course.  Fiat.  Let it be!

Hence I am now a little over 3000 words into this epic adventure.  I have a wonderful brother and sister duo each with their own similar struggles.  I have a war setting with refugees in need of care.  I even have a place to put them: this story will go into the world of another story that I have yet to finish writing because it needed more time to germinate.  So I will explore the world a little with this story and see where it leads.  Already there is a mysterious character that promises to reveal something about my female character, if not about the terrible problem facing these people.

There are so many ideas begging!  I am happy to pursue one of them, although sad that I cannot follow them all at once.  It is good, though, to be ready to write, to develop my skill further, and to take seriously something that has always been the fruit of my own need to create something and to explore new worlds than for any other reason.

Some of us just seem to be created to be happy only when we are writing.  Perhaps it makes sense, as it means we are fulfilling our end and hence becoming fully ourselves.

So I had better halt my philosophical ponderings here and return to my writing, for I have not yet written my 1667 or so words for today.  I know at least what shall begin to fill that section of the story, but beyond that mist still lies....

To What Point and Purpose?

Perhaps every writer reaches a point when he wonders what is the purpose of his writing, when all seems dry and fruitless, when he wants to give up but cannot.  I have reached that point.  It may be that my perfectionism has reared its ugly head again, making me realize that, no matter how well I write, my writing will never be good enough.

Surely there is purpose to our writing despite its flaws?  For certainly no one else will ever write what we would and should we fail to obey the insistent call to write, the world would lose some unique piece of its puzzle.

So we must write on, against all doubts, all fears.  We must write even for a purpose we cannot see.

Yet we must not write in vain.  For it is vain if we hold up our first efforts as a work of genius that the world must adore.  Instead we must look lovingly at our frail attempts, smile upon our faults, and carry on.  We must write and write again and rewrite until it is polished—until it is as perfect as we can make it.  For we must not blanket the world with shoddy writing, but with great art.  Even if we find ourselves laughing bitterly at the possibility that we should ever create something great, still we must go on: for if we write on when we cannot, then we know not what realms we shall reach beyond ourselves.

Therefore, begone demons of despair!

We will write on, even if it be futile.  At least for the moment we can stave off the darkness.  We await the light of dawn to shine upon what we have wrought unknowingly.

Within and Without

Within each one of us there is a dark chasm, a well of emptiness, a hunger that cannot be sated....

Is it not so?  Furthermore, is it not true that we must strive to fill that hole?  Who can bear to remain still with this emptiness within?  Not I.  Nor few others certainly, especially since many even seem to succeed in filling it, if only for a little while, as they fight the darkness, staving it off with pleasure or entertainment.

Yet nothing ever fills it wholly and therefore nothing ever sates.  We must always have more.  So we go on and on, stuffing in the next good or perceived good and then the next and so on in a continuous stream, striving with all our might to ensure that vacant space has something in it.  We go on, even when we know that nothing will ever satisfy.

An artist cannot do the same.

I do not mean by this statement a literal truth that an artist is unable to stuff perceived goods in to fill this hole; indeed, we are all too ready to try—perhaps even the first to do so.  I mean, more accurately, that an artist MUST NOT.

Rather we artists must point out to others that the hole is there, that we all share this emptiness within, that in this suffering there is yet good.  For if we do not, then who will?

I can look at the world about me and see suffering: then pain rises up within me that I can do nothing.  There are all those hungry, thirsty, worn down by overwork and disease, the sick, the dying, and worst of all the hopeless, the empty, the abandoned....  What can I do?

Then I look at all the greatness of human development and I wonder why we do not set our sights higher.  Why do we not aim for life rather than for death?

For death it is that we move towards often enough, even if that is not the goal for which we strive.  It only takes a look around to see the fruit of this unintended end.  For instance, snorkeling around Kauai shows dying coral and fewer fish as unknown quantities of pesticides poured upon GMO crops leak into the ocean and destroy the ecosystem.  Another example breaking upon the news of late: the tearing apart and selling of body parts from pre-born babies, a so-called business carried out since the 1980s.  And there are many more cases.

As I brood on these things, my heart cries out: why?  Why must this be?

These and other tragedies come from some reason surely—from some perceived good.  It must be that people think only of the gain and not the cost, the profit and not the person, the money earned and not the life lost....

What am I to do with this world?

I can hide in my room, or within the safe bounds of the life I have set out for myself.  I can pretend these evils do not exist, choosing instead to stuff the hole in my face with chocolate and set my mind upon old literature, traveling mentally back to days gone by, and so on.  Oh, how easily I can do this!  How easily I can lean back on my selfishness and pretend to care for none but myself.

Yet even more than one who wants to escape the evils of the world I see about me—even more than one who wants desperately to pretend that there shall be a happy ending within my lifetime—even more than that, I want to add my small part to that which cries out for the truth.  I want my voice to resound through the world—or at least my neighborhood—to say that truth is real, that goodness is real, that beauty is real.  I want people to believe in love, in sacrifice, in the common good.

Sometimes I believe that someone might actually hear my voice and have a change of heart.  More often, though, I believe that no one truly cares about another, that no one would even think of giving up some small convenience for the good of another, let alone a complete sacrifice of one's entire life for others.

Yet, as an artist, I must have hope.  I must speak that hope into the vast chasm between me and the next person.  And I will keep saying with the words of a character known as the Poet: "This is good, but something is better...."

So it is that my hope rises up beyond my cynicism.  It blooms like the tiniest of flowers, waiting to be trampled underfoot or crushed by the cold ice and snow of winter if the sun come not in time.  I want to hope, but I do not want my hopes to be dashed.  So it is that my questions remain:

Am I wrong to even hope that someone, somewhere, might want to hear my thoughts resounding across that great chasm between us?

Am I wrong to believe that if we unite we can change the world, one small step at a time?

Am I wrong to even believe in hope itself?

Dear Readers, I Need You

There are many reasons to write a blog.  For instance, I have heard it is a good idea for an author to have a blog to attract fans.  Also, it is encouraging as a writer to have people who want to read one's thoughts on various subjects posted on the blog and hence perhaps even one's stories.  Yet it is not for either of these reasons that I would like to take up writing more regularly here again.

Rather it is because as an artist I must put my work somewhere that it might touch someone.  Even if only one person ever reads it and appreciates it, even if I never know that my words have touched another, I still must write.

For an artist works for others.  A writer needs readers.  Having an audience helps to draw one's work forth from the deep pit within that can be both creative and destructive.

We artists are as needy as anyone else.  We want to be loved even more than other people, if that is possible.  Yet rather than ask for that love, for we are often shy, we put ourselves into our work—no one knows how much of ourselves goes into it—and hold it out as an offering of love.  If you can just appreciate a little this work, that is enough.

So that is all I ask.  If you can appreciate my writing here, please do.

Even better than mere appreciation: if something I say sparks ideas, feel free to comment.  I would be grateful to hear your thoughts, your responses, your questions, and even your ideas for future posts.

For I have many topics I would like to address that I might not dare touch here, thinking no one would want to know my thoughts on that subject.  If I know that someone wants my words woven together as a chain for communicating some of these thoughts, I will gladly bend my will to this task.  This is for you, dear readers, few though you may be.

Garden Blemishes

Weeding strongly affects one's perspective on life it seems.  A simple task can lead to deep thought.

For, as I walked back to the house this evening, I found I could not simply walk back as one does with the purpose of arriving at the place to which he is headed.  Instead, having spent time weeding of late, I had to stop and pull each weed I saw.

I did not appreciate the flowers or bushes, nor even the light shining through the trees.  All I could see were the weeds that needed to be pulled, and in this moment of compulsiveness I stooped not necessarily to make the place more beautiful, but to fulfill a duty.  If I had wanted to make it more beautiful, I might instead have turned my gaze upon the beautiful aspects of the gardens.  I might even have changed my perspective to see the whole as beautiful even with the weeds.

Yet I missed the passing beauty of the light that will never fall exactly the same way again, of a garden that will never look the same tomorrow; I missed everything but the weeds.

This is not to say there was nothing good in my weeding.  No doubt the garden really did look better without the weeds.  Also, I found it comforting to thus make my mark upon my surroundings, to fulfill this small duty, to accomplish something that clearly needed to be done.  There is a sort of pleasure in destroying something that is not seen as good.

So the weeds lie there shriveling in the garden now for whatever that is worth...

Take this as you will, dear readers.  I doubt you will need an explanation of this parable, but if you do I will not mind providing it.

The Time Has Come

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings.

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

That is the quotation that always comes to my mind whenever I start to say "The time has come...."  In this case, I intended to begun with that statement for the very reason that the time has indeed come for me to return to writing, both here and elsewhere.

Since I started writing seriously around the age of twelve--having wanted to be a writer since I was five or so--I have found it makes my life richer and more meaningful.  I have always had ideas crowding to mind and the itch to write.  I find that when I sit down and put words to paper to pursue the ideas floating through my mind that it makes me happier.  No doubt this is the way of a writer.

Well I have just finished approximately three years of fallow time.  It is good to be a writer again.

This time of dormancy began originally because I had decided to pursue the study of theatre.  I love theatre because it is an extension of my love of writing--a way to make all of my stories live.

I learned an incredible amount in my small drama program, not only about theatre, but about writing.  I had no idea how much I had learned until I came back to the sixth draft of my novel this spring.  I knew that my playwrighting class had taught me a lot.  That was writing, so its potential influence was obvious.  Not so obvious, however, was the effect of everything else I learned about dramatic action and objectives and the theory of theatre and so on.  All of it is combining to make this sixth draft so much stronger.

It is paradoxical that one can become a better writer by not writing.  This is not to encourage laziness or avoidance of writing.  It is true, however, that once one has spent years and years reading and writing and reading more and writing more, all that work needs time to lie dormant before it is ready to sprout forth.

I hope soon--perhaps in a year or less--to have a finished draft to share with the world.  Until then, I hope to resume my random postings on here.  I hope I shall leave you, my readers, with some fruit from your time here.

Inadequacy

They say that each person has a purpose on life that no one else can fulfill—a beautiful thought that seems so perfectly clear for some. For others, darkness and uncertainty and lack of confidence overshadow that hope.

Why is there this crippling sense of inadequacy?

As one looks around, it seems that everyone else has such confidence, such certainty, such skill in achieving whatever they set out to do. It seems that others can always do it better, whatever it might be. One's own efforts seem paltry by comparison. It seems that one is doomed to failure no matter how hard his efforts, or, if not failure, at least to falling short, not merely of perfection, but falling short of what anyone else might accomplish.

Crippling I described it and truly it is. If one listens to the voice of despair, his confidence evaporates like dew beneath the burning summer sun. His voice dies in his throat. He dares not reach out to others, thinking he could never mean anything to them. So it is that he sinks into the dark hole of his own fear, hiding from terrors made by his own imagination. He dares not strive and his creative energy withers.

Someone working in film whose name I cannot recall at present once spoke of how one can create only if he is free. There is much truth to that. It is freedom that gives boundless horizons to the artist to explore, freedom that opens his mind to the possibilities in the world about him, freedom that stirs in his heart the wonder that ponders how things might be if they were other than they are.

Thus, for an artist, few things could be worse than this crippling sense of inadequacy. It not only withers anything he strives to bring to birth through his work, but also turns to dust whatever he might have dared to accomplish, annihilating any desire to reach for the sublime, hindering any bold leaps of faith that constitute the risks an artist takes when he exposes himself through his work. For, if he himself is inadequate, how could he dare to be presumptuous enough to put himself into his work? How could he believe that others could be moved through the beauty that dwells within him?

Do all experience this phenomenon of inadequacy? Perhaps it is only that they know how to handle it better—how to accept their own weakness and brokenness and reach beyond it—how to put on a bold face that defies such inner turmoil.

Or is it only the sensitive soul that finds itself crippled by this feeling of being crushed beneath the weight of its own brokenness?  Is it only he who seeks a cloak of invisibility lest others should see his inadequacy?

Perhaps someday I shall better understand what I now ponder in uncertainty.  Until then, I hope to have the courage to delve deeper in this mystery that is life in this world.

I conclude with words from Shakespeare expressing the essence of my question:

"Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win,

By fearing to attempt."

-Measure for Measure

To What Point and Purpose?

Some days you just want to give up.  It just doesn't seem worth it to keep struggling on all by your lonesome.  Do you know what I mean?

I'm sure many people feel this way on account of some legitimate castastrophe such as losing everything in a hurricane or being torn from their homes and threatened with death if they won't give up their faith.  However, I seem able to feel this way from something insignificant, such as some slight disappointment or a feeling that I am going to fail at something or simply because I want more than what I have.

Today was one of those days for me.  It started out well with one of the greatest blessings bestowed upon mankind, but for some reason after spending hours trying to get ready for my senior year as a drama major I found I really didn't care very much anymore.  If I were someone else I would just say forget it and go watch some movie or television show for the fourth or fifth time and have a grand old time.  But I can't do that.  I seem to be overly responsible or something.  So I just plowed onward until I found I felt as if I hated it all.

Then it occurred to me that I didn't have to do it.  I was the only one making myself finish my degree as a drama major.  Why didn't I just choose to do something I enjoyed more?

When I couldn't stand it anymore I went for a long bike ride, seeing how far my stubbornness and rising anger at myself and my heap of work could carry me.  I am pretty stubborn, so I know it could have carried me a good distance, but that wouldn't have been enough to take me up and down all those hills...

As I forced myself up a ridiculously-steep hill and my legs began to ache and my breath came short, I wondered why I was doing this.  It seemed like a sort of analogy for the preparation for my senior year.  I could just as easily have given up on that.  After all, I was the only reason I was physically forcing myself up the hill with the heat forcing sweat from my pores.  Why didn't I give up?

Well, I'll tell you this: it wasn't for myself; it was for you, my friends or random strangers who come upon this blog.  This may sound silly unless you believe in the power of intercessory prayer, but there it is.

If I had someone with whom I could share all this I might never have broken my nearly two years of silence on this blog, but, feeling lonely, I decided to cast my words out, not knowing where they might touch.  It's not that I don't have friends—I have been extraordinarily blessed in that regard actually—but they all seem busy with their lives or something, or maybe I just don't want to risk myself in reaching out.  In any case, sometimes I am so much a writer that I just need to write something, even on the computer.

Anyway, this whole experience reminded me of how worthless life is if we live it for ourselves.  Our society tries to tell us that we should be looking out for our best interests, but if that's what we do somehow or other it seems to make us miserable.  It is those who live life for others who are truly happy.

It is a strange paradox—just like the cross.  That is what the cross was about after all: it was about Jesus Christ, the Son of God, offering up His excruciating suffering for us out of love, transforming something ugly into something beautiful because it was not for Himself; it was for us.  And we can do the same in some less dramatic fashion.

I hope you can see this as beautiful, whether or not you believe in Christ.  If you can't, I shall pray for the conversion of your heart....