• Even So

    The street is steady and the lights are fixedtheir glow projects between the yellow linesthe rain dissolves within a fragile mistAnd I am here pretending to be fine

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  • Again: On suffering, the gain of loss, and doing things again

    Throughout the past week and a half, I’ve been suffering from frequent headaches. Or, more accurately put, I’ve been suffering from one continuous headache, which has shifted its shape, has

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  • Unfinished Things

    Sometimes I have this sense of being perpetually behind. It can be hard to account for – at times, the feeling arises when from external appearance I might seem to

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  • Encounters with the Light

    I wait For what? For something that could comeor notfor inspiration that I’ve soughtin secret places of the souland mind, but recently forgotto look for fleeting things,to see the fragment

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  • Dear Beloved: Other People’s Eyes

    Dear Beloved, You are trying to live from a place of confidence and trust, but habits long-formed continue to get in your way. Some of these are ingrained in your

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Noise and the Illusion of Control

I often find myself preoccupied by noise. This can be a problem, because our world is saturated with noise in many ways. We rarely can achieve that pure and perfect silence, whether we seek it, or strive to avoid its searching depths. There is almost always something going on in the background. Sometimes they are deliberate sounds, like music, and sometimes they are incidental, intertwined with everyday life. Cars whiz by on nearby roads; drilling slices through the air from the interminable construction work always going on somewhere in the neighbourhood…

There is always noise: people talking, people walking, even the noises that nature imposes on a sterile silence, like birds chattering and wind rustling through trees and rain pricking softly against the slicked black pavement. Here, the words of the Grinch spring to mind (if you’ll pardon the not-yet-seasonal reference): “Noise, noise, noise!”

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The Lost Art of Breathing

Today I want to talk about reclaiming the lost art of breathing. I’m not crazy (or if I am, this isn’t the reason): humans have been breathing, are currently breathing, and will keep on breathing to infinitude (or at least until they die). Oxygen, as everyone knows, is one of our most fundamental needs. How could it ever be possible to “lose” such a necessity, one that is literally woven into the fabric of survival? Breathing is not something that we need to learn or be taught in order to do it “properly.” As newborn infants enter the world, they draw their first breath; it happens naturally; it is a part of their very nature, which must be why we have the expression “as easy as breathing.” How then is it conceivable to label breathing as an art?

I am not using “art” in a literal or restrictive sense of the word (then again, I rarely do). In my conception of it, art can be anything that opens us up to the beauty of the world. Art is not just some external thing; it must possess transcendent power, the power to become a part of ourselves and to lift us above the strict and basest reality of everyday life. I realize this is a broad and rather loose definition of art (can it even be called a definition?), but I think it is an entirely valid (and indeed, necessary) way of looking at art. There are also specific categories of art that can be better defined, shared, and studied (think of literature, music and visual art), but another vital aspect of art is experience. All humans are by nature creative beings. Because we are created by God in His image, we are able to participate in His creativity through our thoughts, our words, our actions, and simply by being. In light of this, we can all be called artists, art can be called life, and the art of living creation. We create because we were created first, and we experience art in our daily life.

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A Tale of Two Cities

A Tale of Two Cities is the third Dickens novel I have read (after Oliver Twist and Great Expectations). The “bookends” of the novel are two of the most iconic lines in English literature: the lengthy opening sentence about the best and worst of times, and the final words that prophecy “a far better rest.” Yet these were pretty much the extent of my knowledge, and seeing as they were merely decontextualized quotes- famous lines to spout in a suitable situation- they did not tell me much.

Perhaps there is a fair number of people for whom A Tale of Two Cities was assigned reading in high school. For me, this was not the case; part of me wishes that it was, but then again, it’s very possible I would not have been able to adequately appreciate this great work at that time. Either way, I don’t think that this novel (or any Dickens’ novel) can be exhausted on a single reading. As with all Dickensian creations, A Tale of Two Cities is a feat of storytelling. Dicken’s voice is so unique- so lively and delightful (if I may call it that), such that it is always a joy to delve into his world.

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The Truman Show

The Truman Show is worth a watch for its premise alone. Imagine your whole world is actually a carefully constructed artificial reality all revolving around you, and that this “reality” is broadcast to millions of viewers. It is hard to fathom, but the more that I think about it, this fascinating premise is not really so far removed from the things we see (or at least the implicit principles) in our culture.

Truman, played by Jim Carrey (who is always brimming with optimism and energy), has been raised from birth as the star of a massive scale reality show. Yet unlike the Kardashians of the world, Truman is unaware that his life is a source of entertainment for scores of ordinary people. In his mind, he is one of these ordinary people himself; that is, until a peculiar series of events leads him to doubt the truth of everything he has ever known and the authenticity of all of his personal relationships.

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Thoughts: Documentation

Why all the pictures? What are the pictures for? And what will be done with the growing pile of photographs, when they mount so high as to obscure clear vision, and when documentation becomes the definitive guideline for sight?

Surely it is not, cannot be the same: the experience and the record of its object. We are now so eager to record, to preserve, and by doing so to outlive and outlast and out-master the cruel hand of change that also comes, at last, bearing death. We are so eager, perhaps, that the experience is slain, the sacrificial lamb to the false power and importance of documentation. Then again, it may be that there is no sacrifice, but only a neglect, a waste, a forgetting.

The Runner: In Isolation?

Previously I talked about how, for me, running is a very solitary experience. A lot of good can come from this solitude, from the opportunity to let ourselves be, removed from the regular pressures and distractions of other voices. It is a time in which we can be alone with ourselves, within ourselves, and so turn to this inner life, the inner self, and explore its depth and beauty.

And yet, for the most part, when we run we are not alone. There are exceptions to this- perhaps if you are running on a completely secluded and deserted path, or if you happen to have a treadmill in your house and lock the door (I don’t personally like treadmills, but that is a different story for a different time). However, I don’t think there has been a single occasion in the last couple months when I have gone running and not encountered another person. By this, I don’t mean I’ve run into someone that I know (I have only met a familiar face, in the midst of all my sweaty, heavily panting glory, a small handful of times). Rather, I run past people- strangers– sharing the same path as me. Sometimes I also run on the sidewalk alongside the road and in such cases, cars (presumably filled with people: perhaps strange, perhaps familiar) pass me by.

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Dignity and Dependence

What gives a person value? Although if faced with the question, most of us are unlikely to deny a person at least some measure of innate value, we often deny them this value by our actions, words and thoughts. We make determinations about whether a person is deserving of “respect.” We constantly form internal (or external) judgements, labelling the people we know or even (more frequently) the people we do not, as “bad,” “pathetic,” in some way “less.”

Where do these judgements come from, these evaluations of human worth? Because that is indeed what we are doing: evaluating someone or something. Yet there is an essential distinction to be made here. Evaluating an act, a choice or a set of values is different from evaluating a person. Of course if we neglect or refuse to make this distinction between “right” and “wrong,” we stray down the dangerous path of relativity, defining truth as whatever feels good, rather than Truth with a capital “T.” But while judging an act and deciding that it is not “right” or does not reflect the Truth for which humans were intended holds the person accountable for their actions, it does not strip them of their fundamental dignity.

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The Two Towers

Throughout the whole of its rather lengthy running time, The Two Towers is utterly compelling. It has been said many times, I’m sure, but these films are truly masterpieces. They convey such a vast range of emotional depth and follow the many threads of the story deftly and with great compassion for the characters. And of course, the films are visual splendours, feats of cinematography and special effects that were, at the time, groundbreaking and extremely influential for the future course of film.

I left off my review of The Fellowship of the Ring by discussing Merry and Pippin and the value that is ascribed to their lives, despite their weaknesses and failings. In the second movie, after a close escape from those repulsively horrendous orcs, the two hobbits spend most of their time riding through the forest with Treebeard and providing some comic relief. And yet, unexpectedly, from this seemingly “insignificant” subplot comes an event with extremely significant ramifications for the battle for Middle Earth: the fall of Isengard. Merry and Pippin bring about this victory for their side, not by strength or strenuousness of intellectual argument in convincing the trees to join the fight, but through their cleverness and the innovative idea to lead Treebeard towards Saruman. The direct encounter with the death of his kinsmen which follows speaks louder than any rallying cry towards battle ever could.

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Thoughts: The Many and the One

An endless stream of faces; they break the bounds of this bank and rush forth to meet me, sweeping over my head as I drown in the multitude. Yes, in the many, how does one choose? When confronted with the plethora of people, I am likewise confronted with hope and despair. Despair that there can be no uniqueness or importance to be one of the masses; despair that there is too much from which to choose, so much that intelligence and certainty in choice are impossible, and love, perhaps (let it not be so), is a mirage.

Yet hope, because the many are not many but people: an unfathomable display of the vast array of beauty and uniqueness; hope because the Creator is at hand in each face; hope because in such greatness there must be the Ultimate Good overseeing all these smaller goods. And so love is not only possible but singular: designed, sharing in the divine.

In the many, God still celebrates the one.

The Lost Art of Letter-Writing

Back when we had not “progressed” so far as to make instantaneous communication possible, distance was bridged through the writing and sending of letters. These letters were part of a shared culture that is now unfamiliar and perhaps even foreign to us. Letters were an essential part of life, a part of “being in the world” and engaging in relationship with others. While many of these letters would necessarily have been banal or filled only with the back and forth of practical matters, there are also countless scores of letters that can (and in my opinion, should) be considered works of art.

I have a poetry anthology of Keats that attests to this fact: along with the complete catalogue of Keats’ poems, the book also contains selections from his letters. Thus his personal letters- these documentations of communication- are included as a part of his artistic repertoire. These letters are beautiful and thoughtful pieces, worthy of being read, capable of being meaningfully read despite the fact that they were written for a specific person, and none of us can claim to be this person (if Keats wrote a letter individually addressed to you, then you must be at least 194 years old).

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