Sick I am, to the core, of passion's mask of love. Sick I am of attraction; of sex; of lust. Each spinning its own web of sour quasi-truth. Each dangerously convincing until the kindle spent: the heart can play no longer at the flitting pace of a masquerade. Do men truly love, or is it only a game played by childish dreamers? Too dangerous for me is the road of validation though so often have I walked there; so often does it call me and tempt me and hold me with its deceptions so delicious. And yet love so defined has only led me in dark circles; grasping at the night for moments, words, and songs. No, love is not a passion. For, try as they might, passions cannot penetrate the depth of the human soul. Chasing clouds and swearing vows hold their permanence only in ignorance.
Is true love so uninteresting that sonnets never touch it? Complex, perhaps, or mysterious or only a fact of perception? No, I say. It is a gift and, in this, it is the sister of spirituality. For do we not see similar trends in conversion? Do we not mistake passion for fidelity; excitement for testimony? Faith is not guesswork, nor a dramatic step to spite the dark: it is the knowledge of the guiding hand amidst the daunting world. So too is love not a symphony of expression: it is a symphony of life. It is a truth that, when sown, takes root in the very core of human identity. But pray, these roots can be touched by the changing tides upon the surface; they can be poisoned by a temporary satisfaction. But, the seed needs no culturing, it only need be given the opportunity to be cultured by a time devoid of expectation. Then it will grow beyond temporary limits and feed the soul with such a feeling as defies our mortal realm. That that is the whole point: true love is not a human creation, in feeling or expression. It is a divine truth; divinely controlled and divinely bestowed.
Time correct me if I am wrong.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
8.28.09
Journal Excerpt (8.2.09):
Always haunted am I by the glorious potential of imagination. Imagination which climbs such lofty slopes to where it places its great men. And, with traces of reality it whispers that great men there have always been to do great things; men blessed by talent and conviction to bring about magnificent changes. Their ghosts inspire me, but my own doubts and jealousies wave their fearful hands at empty air repeating the phrases: they are but ghosts, their words were but fantasies, you cannot touch them and they therefore do not exist, replace your vain jealousy with reality, stop grasping at such selfish and nonexistent apparitions, would you carry your dreamy idealisms into a world trying so dearly to teach you its actual occurrences? How long will you consign your spirit to fly before you realize your body has not left the ground?
But, even so, even with these opposing forces--be they fear or reality--there is still the inner flame. A passion deep with that would give this body wings. A force that I can scarce account for, so deeply engraved by a perfect choice of experience. To be honest (admittedly selfish though it may be), I want to be a great man. And not a great man to but a few, for many a great example there are to their blessed and precious friends; a great man and a mover of history. I do not here seek to justify my desire with supposed qualifications of even with a precarious claim to a fictional right; I simply here express the desire, the craving and obsession which so haunts my soul with dream and ambition; with even the hints of potential itself. My greatest fear, I think, is not that it cannot come to be, but that it is not the will of God that so be my mortal sojourn. And alas, herein is manifest my short-sighted greed and fear. And here is where my faith whispers: loosen thy grasp, brother: give yourself to Him without condition or restraint and you will find what your very soul truly seeks; a treasure that even your imagination fails to capture and which cannot be attained by mortal device. Lose yourself, brother; deep down here you have the faith to do it. Do not pine for plans and controls, plan only to let go of everything.
Always haunted am I by the glorious potential of imagination. Imagination which climbs such lofty slopes to where it places its great men. And, with traces of reality it whispers that great men there have always been to do great things; men blessed by talent and conviction to bring about magnificent changes. Their ghosts inspire me, but my own doubts and jealousies wave their fearful hands at empty air repeating the phrases: they are but ghosts, their words were but fantasies, you cannot touch them and they therefore do not exist, replace your vain jealousy with reality, stop grasping at such selfish and nonexistent apparitions, would you carry your dreamy idealisms into a world trying so dearly to teach you its actual occurrences? How long will you consign your spirit to fly before you realize your body has not left the ground?
But, even so, even with these opposing forces--be they fear or reality--there is still the inner flame. A passion deep with that would give this body wings. A force that I can scarce account for, so deeply engraved by a perfect choice of experience. To be honest (admittedly selfish though it may be), I want to be a great man. And not a great man to but a few, for many a great example there are to their blessed and precious friends; a great man and a mover of history. I do not here seek to justify my desire with supposed qualifications of even with a precarious claim to a fictional right; I simply here express the desire, the craving and obsession which so haunts my soul with dream and ambition; with even the hints of potential itself. My greatest fear, I think, is not that it cannot come to be, but that it is not the will of God that so be my mortal sojourn. And alas, herein is manifest my short-sighted greed and fear. And here is where my faith whispers: loosen thy grasp, brother: give yourself to Him without condition or restraint and you will find what your very soul truly seeks; a treasure that even your imagination fails to capture and which cannot be attained by mortal device. Lose yourself, brother; deep down here you have the faith to do it. Do not pine for plans and controls, plan only to let go of everything.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
8.26.09
Journal Excerpt (7.22.09):
Maybe it was just the spirit in which I arrived there (Abbotsford), but I distinctly felt as if in a sort of home. I remember vividly a moment at Abbotsford when, while in the garden, I looked north into the landscape; or, as it seemed, into the whole of Scotland itself. There was a heavy mist in the garden and the mountains surrounding, giving the setting such a majesty and beautiful mystery as I have never seen; as if those same mountains held a subtle secret endowed by the endless magnificence, however tenderly expressed, of only time. A sort of divine secret, not so kept in spite, but with a gentle encouragement and love; kept, not from all, in the promise of potential and peace and the knowledge that again, through the surreal rolling-on of time, that same inspiration will be gloriously shared and unfolded.
There I stood, transfixed in the garden; the house and especially the Scottish flag fixed atop perfectly framed by the mist and mountains behind. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
Abbotsford itself, as a house, was inspiring as well: the greatness of Sir Walter Scott leaving its tendencies and reverence in it. The man himself looked very noble, but I was perhaps more inspired by the effects of his imagination and the perceptions of him. But perhaps not; I also felt a certain kinship towards him and his style of work even despite outward on public musings.
Maybe it was just the spirit in which I arrived there (Abbotsford), but I distinctly felt as if in a sort of home. I remember vividly a moment at Abbotsford when, while in the garden, I looked north into the landscape; or, as it seemed, into the whole of Scotland itself. There was a heavy mist in the garden and the mountains surrounding, giving the setting such a majesty and beautiful mystery as I have never seen; as if those same mountains held a subtle secret endowed by the endless magnificence, however tenderly expressed, of only time. A sort of divine secret, not so kept in spite, but with a gentle encouragement and love; kept, not from all, in the promise of potential and peace and the knowledge that again, through the surreal rolling-on of time, that same inspiration will be gloriously shared and unfolded.
There I stood, transfixed in the garden; the house and especially the Scottish flag fixed atop perfectly framed by the mist and mountains behind. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
Abbotsford itself, as a house, was inspiring as well: the greatness of Sir Walter Scott leaving its tendencies and reverence in it. The man himself looked very noble, but I was perhaps more inspired by the effects of his imagination and the perceptions of him. But perhaps not; I also felt a certain kinship towards him and his style of work even despite outward on public musings.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
8.24.09
Journal Excerpt (7.3.09):
We are in the library of a Sikh Gurdwara which is a beautiful and peaceful place. The spirits of pilgrimage and devotion predominate the building. We arrived this morning and after taking off our shoes and covering our heads, went upstairs to the main room where the sacred text is kept. It was a very large room; the architecture and sacred monuments again whispering of devotion and brotherhood. I was pondering on the devotion of those in the room--their beliefs and feelings. I'm sure there are many different stories and reasons for coming, but I reflected on that wonderful humility and inner awe that pulls men toward religion. In the end, the actions--fanning the book, reading the sacred text, bowing, giving money, and prostrating oneself--are simple and natural, baring their devotion in consistency and loyalty. And that, I think, was both my favorite and hardest part of my visit: craving to learn a new and beautiful path for my own dedication, but only being able to catch a sacred glimpse. It is a path I hope to learn more about in the future as I feel it is so incredibly edifying and fulfilling; another feeling by which our most basic human drives and characteristics can be connected in the spirit of literal brotherhood. A connection which transcends cultural and historical differences.
Now I am sitting in the library with some of my fellow students. We are listening to a local Sikh tell us about the Sikh lifestyle and beliefs. I felt very peaceful, especially when he spoke about trying to become one with God: like a river pouring into the ocean he said. A beauty unbound by the words of men; it is a feeling of our loving Father's hand.
We are in the library of a Sikh Gurdwara which is a beautiful and peaceful place. The spirits of pilgrimage and devotion predominate the building. We arrived this morning and after taking off our shoes and covering our heads, went upstairs to the main room where the sacred text is kept. It was a very large room; the architecture and sacred monuments again whispering of devotion and brotherhood. I was pondering on the devotion of those in the room--their beliefs and feelings. I'm sure there are many different stories and reasons for coming, but I reflected on that wonderful humility and inner awe that pulls men toward religion. In the end, the actions--fanning the book, reading the sacred text, bowing, giving money, and prostrating oneself--are simple and natural, baring their devotion in consistency and loyalty. And that, I think, was both my favorite and hardest part of my visit: craving to learn a new and beautiful path for my own dedication, but only being able to catch a sacred glimpse. It is a path I hope to learn more about in the future as I feel it is so incredibly edifying and fulfilling; another feeling by which our most basic human drives and characteristics can be connected in the spirit of literal brotherhood. A connection which transcends cultural and historical differences.
Now I am sitting in the library with some of my fellow students. We are listening to a local Sikh tell us about the Sikh lifestyle and beliefs. I felt very peaceful, especially when he spoke about trying to become one with God: like a river pouring into the ocean he said. A beauty unbound by the words of men; it is a feeling of our loving Father's hand.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
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