Catharsis and Hot Chocolate
So I started writing again.
A step back.
I started writing in 6th grade, in Mrs. Gillis-Worthen's class. She had us write in journals for 5 minutes a day. I don't know what happened to it, but I lost my journal a long time ago, and I have missed it ever since. How interesting would it be to hear what I was thinking about when I was 11 or 12? Since then, I have intended to begin writing again several times, and in this effort, I have collected several journals. However, my entries are sparse and far between. However, I have decided to write again in an act of catharsis (mostly since there was no way I could bring my paints to Vandy). I have been pretty good about it too. The rules are at least 5 minutes a day, and no crossing out words. It should be an interesting experiment. The one thing is, I am disappointed in the restrictions that I have put on myself since I was 12. I don't exactly remember what I wrote, but I know that I didn't stop because I thought it was stupid. I would write the stupidest poems or short short stories without worrying what the teacher would think. And now that I am the only one reading my journal, I still can't let myself be stupid or irrationally creative. Hopefully, this will turn around with work, but the thing is, I used to pride myself on my creativity. Maybe school and work and being older has just sucked all of the life out of my right brain. Who knows.
It is raining. Beautifully. I just got out of class, and I have another in 30 minutes. I have hot chocolate and my computer in a dark room, and all I can hear is the rain outside and the quiet morning voices of my hallmates.
My Grandmother and I had a conversation the other day. She had just put her hand in her coat pocket to find a misplaced $20 bill. She called it a "sleeper." "That's when you find something important that you had forgotten about." I found my watch over spring break. That was a sleeper. My airline luggage came in. That was a sleeper. Sleepers are almost like time capsules. The last time I had seen my watch, it was Senior prom. I took Megan. It brought me right back to nearly 10 months ago (amazing that it hasn't even been a year yet, but things have changed so much). When I got my luggage, I remembered the time before we left. Everyone was so excited to go, and I had packed all my best clothes in anticipation. The trip had been a disappointment, but when I opened my long-lost suitcase, I remembered only the time before. The time of anticipation. A week after I got back to school from Spring break, I had to take out the garbage, which would seem routine, I know. But inside, were relics from when Mom was alive and everything in my life was going fine, well, finer than it is now, anyway. Under the many Kleenex from a recent cold and many tears were copies of old papers that had been edited in red, invitations to different parties or organizations, normal school stuff. Likewise, when I went to take my clothes to the dry-cleaners, I dug up my tux pants and shirt, which I wore the weekend before Mom died. It is interesting how one event can mark a life, like a little signpost. Now, it seems like everything is either before Mom or after. Year 0 AM. I don't mean to dwell, but really, I think mine is an interesting (though heart wrenching) position to be in. And I am not going to just ignore the fact.
I certainly try to stay away from the female teenage angst vibe, and I hope I am not depressing (though the subject may not be the lightest in the world.) But like the title states, it's the catharsis, stupid. This is basically how it works. If I had something clever and interesting to put here (rather than a) B&M'ing about whatever the latest drama is or b) boring you with trivial stupid details about what party I went to last night (basically none) or who I am taking to formal (Natalia)) then I would do so, and perhaps I will make it my goal to do so next post. But that means I will have to begin thinking cleverly again, and I am afraid school has sucked all of my cleverness out of me.
Final note. There is a point when you realize that when something happens to you, no matter how trivial, you can't be the same person as you always were. I guess this applies to my earlier comment about creativity. Circumstances change you, and you might be able to change yourself back by effort, but really, you will never be the same, never be pure again. None of us can go back to high school, Chris can't go back and say he has never loved before, I can't go back and say that I wasn't affected by Mom's death. But here I am reading about Buddhism in class, the main principle of which is the fact that you CAN go back. You can separate yourself from the world and let go of all of the suffering and the happiness in your life and achieve nirvana.
"Touched now by ease and now by misery,
The wise manifest no high and low"
And here I think: I know that I can never go back to the way I was, I can never be "pure" again. But I could never live without being affected by life. I would let myself be ravaged by countless years of suffering even for the privilege to retain the memories I have with my family and friends. The truth is, though you can never be the same, and you may be a little more broken and a little more hard and a little less idealistic, these are the consequences of life. People change, for better or for worse, and unless you live in a monastery in Tibet, you are glad to change, because while some change is bad, other change is good, and it is priceless.
So there is my cliché rambling. But the truth is, no matter how many times I had heard that message, I never really took it in until I discovered it for myself. So thank you Buddha, you are indeed the wise one.
OK, last thing. I have been criticizing the Buddha this whole time, but he actually does have something meaningful to say:
"Let one not associate
With low persons, bad friends.
But let one associate
With noble persons, worthy friends."
- The Dhammapada, the Buddha
Good friends, peace and much love,
Steven M. E.
A step back.
I started writing in 6th grade, in Mrs. Gillis-Worthen's class. She had us write in journals for 5 minutes a day. I don't know what happened to it, but I lost my journal a long time ago, and I have missed it ever since. How interesting would it be to hear what I was thinking about when I was 11 or 12? Since then, I have intended to begin writing again several times, and in this effort, I have collected several journals. However, my entries are sparse and far between. However, I have decided to write again in an act of catharsis (mostly since there was no way I could bring my paints to Vandy). I have been pretty good about it too. The rules are at least 5 minutes a day, and no crossing out words. It should be an interesting experiment. The one thing is, I am disappointed in the restrictions that I have put on myself since I was 12. I don't exactly remember what I wrote, but I know that I didn't stop because I thought it was stupid. I would write the stupidest poems or short short stories without worrying what the teacher would think. And now that I am the only one reading my journal, I still can't let myself be stupid or irrationally creative. Hopefully, this will turn around with work, but the thing is, I used to pride myself on my creativity. Maybe school and work and being older has just sucked all of the life out of my right brain. Who knows.
It is raining. Beautifully. I just got out of class, and I have another in 30 minutes. I have hot chocolate and my computer in a dark room, and all I can hear is the rain outside and the quiet morning voices of my hallmates.
My Grandmother and I had a conversation the other day. She had just put her hand in her coat pocket to find a misplaced $20 bill. She called it a "sleeper." "That's when you find something important that you had forgotten about." I found my watch over spring break. That was a sleeper. My airline luggage came in. That was a sleeper. Sleepers are almost like time capsules. The last time I had seen my watch, it was Senior prom. I took Megan. It brought me right back to nearly 10 months ago (amazing that it hasn't even been a year yet, but things have changed so much). When I got my luggage, I remembered the time before we left. Everyone was so excited to go, and I had packed all my best clothes in anticipation. The trip had been a disappointment, but when I opened my long-lost suitcase, I remembered only the time before. The time of anticipation. A week after I got back to school from Spring break, I had to take out the garbage, which would seem routine, I know. But inside, were relics from when Mom was alive and everything in my life was going fine, well, finer than it is now, anyway. Under the many Kleenex from a recent cold and many tears were copies of old papers that had been edited in red, invitations to different parties or organizations, normal school stuff. Likewise, when I went to take my clothes to the dry-cleaners, I dug up my tux pants and shirt, which I wore the weekend before Mom died. It is interesting how one event can mark a life, like a little signpost. Now, it seems like everything is either before Mom or after. Year 0 AM. I don't mean to dwell, but really, I think mine is an interesting (though heart wrenching) position to be in. And I am not going to just ignore the fact.
I certainly try to stay away from the female teenage angst vibe, and I hope I am not depressing (though the subject may not be the lightest in the world.) But like the title states, it's the catharsis, stupid. This is basically how it works. If I had something clever and interesting to put here (rather than a) B&M'ing about whatever the latest drama is or b) boring you with trivial stupid details about what party I went to last night (basically none) or who I am taking to formal (Natalia)) then I would do so, and perhaps I will make it my goal to do so next post. But that means I will have to begin thinking cleverly again, and I am afraid school has sucked all of my cleverness out of me.
Final note. There is a point when you realize that when something happens to you, no matter how trivial, you can't be the same person as you always were. I guess this applies to my earlier comment about creativity. Circumstances change you, and you might be able to change yourself back by effort, but really, you will never be the same, never be pure again. None of us can go back to high school, Chris can't go back and say he has never loved before, I can't go back and say that I wasn't affected by Mom's death. But here I am reading about Buddhism in class, the main principle of which is the fact that you CAN go back. You can separate yourself from the world and let go of all of the suffering and the happiness in your life and achieve nirvana.
"Touched now by ease and now by misery,
The wise manifest no high and low"
And here I think: I know that I can never go back to the way I was, I can never be "pure" again. But I could never live without being affected by life. I would let myself be ravaged by countless years of suffering even for the privilege to retain the memories I have with my family and friends. The truth is, though you can never be the same, and you may be a little more broken and a little more hard and a little less idealistic, these are the consequences of life. People change, for better or for worse, and unless you live in a monastery in Tibet, you are glad to change, because while some change is bad, other change is good, and it is priceless.
So there is my cliché rambling. But the truth is, no matter how many times I had heard that message, I never really took it in until I discovered it for myself. So thank you Buddha, you are indeed the wise one.
OK, last thing. I have been criticizing the Buddha this whole time, but he actually does have something meaningful to say:
"Let one not associate
With low persons, bad friends.
But let one associate
With noble persons, worthy friends."
- The Dhammapada, the Buddha
Good friends, peace and much love,
Steven M. E.
posted by tidalplateau at 11:19 AM
1 Comments:
I really enjoyed this Steven. It made me think a bit about things going on. Thanks.
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