The Wheel Keeps Spinning

The sky contains more joy than I'll know.

Or at least, it feels that way sometimes. As if off in the distance there's this untapped location stowing away all the happiness I'm short of experiencing, and to attend this place would be to experience freedom from frustration and sorrow. I don't want to run from worry, I want to face it head on. Yet, to face it with the confidence I know I'll one day be capable of mustering seems like the poetic thing to await. Yet, there is no barrier between the dissatisfaction I feel now and the joyous emotion of this future place. I am the only thing in my way, and I am crippling myself with the distant goal by ever placing it several feet beyond my reach.

It's the image of a hamster on a running wheel that best characterizes this position we find ourselves in. Always working, sometimes pushing extra hard, as if the effort we put in on that wheel will bring us any closer to this joy. Maybe running is your passion, and an end in itself, but if you're spinning the wheel with the hopes that one day something changes, it's time to get off it and step on more solid ground. Why is it that we accept where we are, and sit around with hope that something will alter our condition if we just wait for it. I'm not saying we should be without hope. Rather, we should engage in hope, let it be an active position and allow ourselves to seek out fulfillment rather than wait for it to come to us.

When I die, I want to die a happy man. Would I be disappointed if I died tomorrow? Yes, probably. Why? Because there's so much stuff I haven't done yet. Not because I'm not a happy man, but because there are all these other goals unspoken yet fully entrenched in my being. If you gave me twenty four hours to live, I'd reflect deeply and use that time for great things. I'd die tired. And yet, here I sit, perfectly aware that my time is limited, and perfectly content to stockpile my energy as I spin the wheel and wait for signs of impending danger. Even though I'm aware of this predicament, it's a tough first step to take.

Poemish

My heart breaks at a distance for the cries of injustice.
With apathy does it receive hurt and cringe at emotional distress.
Like the hurt of a phantom limb, its mourning for the loss of unity and wholeness
undercuts my understanding of the purpose original design.
Like the reception of an estranged child, its comprehension not prepared
for the overflow of tears and overwhelming reception of someone else's pain.

Characterizing the problems of nature in terms of
Synthetic simile, I force myself to grasp at the concept of empathy.
Coming up empty, I straddle the gap between trenches of compassion and indifference,
striving to discover a place amongst the fallen.
The obligation of support and audacity of ignorance contrasting both sides,
I remain struggling with the call to love as I love myself.

In light, a love of self is that of reflection.
Channeling the grace of agape into self-worth, I begin to comprehend.
Yet, beneath the dark clouds of the fallen world, rays of light are distorted.
In darkness, I see no part worthy of love.
It is within this existence, torn between ignorance and support,
that I desire to share the burden of heartache, and reject the objective lense for true understanding.

Ramble ramble...

When will the time come that sees me appreciating what I have? When will it be time to sacrifice my desires for those of the people around me? When will it become a reality that can no longer be overlooked or delayed? What will it take for me to realize that urgency is not some distant concept but something that can be lived out everyday?

I wish I had these answers. It's easy to say that the reason I struggle in the world is the world, and that I'd do much better if I was isolated away from the pressures and distractions of society. I'm not sure how truthful this all is, but it sure is easy to say. I suppose this is my problem with running away, as I've yet to see the destination where troubles aren't permitted, and ran past exhaustion is search of a solution. I know I'm supposed to struggle, I know I'd much rather be on the end of adversity than that of simplicity. Yet, it'd be nice to have a balance.

Despite these rantings, I think fulfillment is found not in what one does for the self, but what can be done for others. While not exactly profound, it's something that I need to be reminded of. I'm bored in an existence that fails to branch beyond the thoughts of my mind. Excitement is in the unpredictability of interaction.

It'd take loss, by the way...one realizes wasted potential after the opportune moment has passed. To look back not with memories but regrets is the sentence for idle behaviour. I like to think I live without regrets, but sure wish I had more memories.

Imperfection...

Our love is imperfect,

It's messy, unplanned, unfinished, and slightly off-centre. It may be constant, but its presence is subverted and hidden by obligation and routine. We fight for every inch of ground only to realize we're standing on eachother's toes. We argue so deeply that we drown ourselves in trivial confusions. We overshare, and leave things unsaid. We grow too close, and then counterbalance by placing great distances between us. We are on the process of perfection, aware of our distant proximity from any semblance of it in our lives. Yet, as you remind me, beauty can be found in the asymmetrical.

Our eyes are drawn not to the things which are mirror images, but those which stand apart. My most vivid mental images are incomparable to the true beauty of the world. I'm incapible of envisioning anything truly unique, something representing natural beauty. I can recreate what I've already seen, but there is no capturing the essence of a sight by simply reproducing it in my mind. We're always looking at what we think is beautiful, but never questioning the lack of fulfillment we experience. Always wanting more, growing tired of those things which our minds have grasped, we require more than we're capable of providing for ourselves.

And so, when I realize just how imperfect our love is, it's with these things in mind that I can find joy. Though our love is not an ideal, though we're not the manifestation of perfection, I am satisfied. Not satisfied as in "that sandwich was satisfying." No, satisfied as in I need not look further for happiness. I need not look upon the perfection in others with envy or yearning. I am imperfect, I am in love, and though I'd love to be perfect in my submission, I am incapable of perfect love. I am capable of admitting my shortcomings, I am capable of accepting my faults and I am certainly capable of trying to overcome. I work every day to better myself not with the hopes of perfecting our love, I work with the hopes that we both need not look any further. I work to give you the love you deserve. Even when you don't see me, I work to capture and hold on to your beauty for the moments where our imperfection is showing.

Thinking hard, or hardly thinking?

Man, do I ever love the freedom of a blank page without criteria, word counts or structures. I'd love to be all artistic and say that it's representative of how my mind works, without structures, order or a set process. However, unfortunately, and perhaps to my regret, this simply is not true. I process, I weigh options, I scan and consider pros and cons. I worry about repercussions; I think ahead and foresee opposition like a game of chess. And yet, as I sit here writing my paper on Obama (woooooo! Obamaaaaa!) I cannot help but get all artistic and struggle to foresee any sort of opposing views to my own. Talk about complicated, perhaps I'm just contradictory. But then again, perhaps not.

Now, time to get down to business. I sat here momentarily, listening to an inspirational piano solo, thinking of what I felt was worthy of attention of such a focused moment. Here we go.

I was in bible study the other night, working through Amos chapter 1, and the topic of helping others was raised through the lens of compassion. I don't quite remember the specifics of how we arrived upon the notion, I just remember where my mind went. Not for quite some time has my mind raced as it did. While I sat in silent reflection, I pondered to myself just why is it that I can read about the death of someone with such a cold response, and yet feel a shudder jolt through my body at the thought of losing someone I love. A couple ideas came to mind.

In Obama's book "Dreams from my father", Obama's dad is characterized as a rough sort of guy with alcoholism and a bit of an antisocial attitude. Yet, in a moment more revealing, Obama is told of how his father, when doing well financially, always lent out money and gave generously to his friends. And yet, when struggling, he was abandoned. After this slow period, when he bounced back and those who turned away from him struggled, he embraced them yet again with open arms. To his disservice, he gave. He gave all he could, and never refused those who asked. He gave, even when he couldn't afford to, to the very people who had abandoned him. This behaviour is criticized in the novel, as Barack Sr. treated everyone like family one character notes "if everyone is family, nobody is family" or something to that effect.

This was my initial thought. I can only care so much. I cannot see every death, every bit of injustice or misfortune as I would for the people closest to me. If I do, where is there special place in my heart? How can I raise a healthy family if I spend as much time, or more, away raising and restoring others? There's no way to balance familial love equally, and a choice eventually must be made. It's not selfish, and this is the crucial bit. It's entirely selfless. But even in selflessness, it's a tough thing to come to terms with. Who do I love? Who can I invest time loving? I can love everyone poorly, or love some people in a deeper sense. If I care for everyone, I shed a tear at their misfortunes, but if I care for those closest to me, I help them through their hard times.

Next, it made me think of Notes from the Underground. Philosophy, year 2, DC. Essentially the story of an existential consciousness paralyzed by choices. His authenticity and true-to-self attitude is not in his attempts to do a bunch of things, or decide on anything in particular, but rather to be stagnant in the face of overwhelming possibility. Contradictory at times, full of conviction throughout, this voice as it constantly shifted in thought remained within an action-less body in contrast to the way many people carry out many actions without thought or true desire to act at all. Rather than do, he thought.

This one, perhaps, is more of a stretch, but maybe not. What does it ACTUALLY look like to care for EVERYONE? Consider that. I didn't say to think about others, I didn't say to reflect on suffering, I said to care for everyone. Where do you begin? How do you decide that's where? How legitimate is your care? How superficial? Are there those who are fine, who need no care? How can you be sure? How do you help those that refuse help? How do you help, if you yourself require assistance? How do you prevent yourself from making it worse? Etc. These are the secondary thoughts that raced through my mind upon consideration of this dilemma. I've heard it said that in many things a Christian is called to, there is a sort of paradox. That we are called to act in ways we maybe lack the disposition or capacity to act in, yet we should do them anyways. That this is the call of a Christ-like lifestyle. And yet, these questions all remain. The overwhelming sense of uncertainty paralyzes my mind when I reflect; all the while I can't help but feeling I'm missing out on something crucial.

So then where does that leave me? Where are the lines drawn for who gets cared for, and who will have to rely on others? Though I'm inclined to draw the lines as close in as possible, and build on what already exists, I can't help but feel that that's not right. Furthermore, the idea of expanding the lines out in an infinite way feels cheap and unproductive. I don't know that the question is meant for an answer. I do know that it's meant for reflection. Like so many other concepts in life, there are things which in themselves are an end. Things which, by way of the means alone, one can arrive at places of enlightenment and truth. The goal is to think, but to think with compassion. Let thought dictate word and deed. Never limit yourself to just thought for fear of paralysis. Likewise, never limit yourself to just deed, for fear of alienation and neglect of those closest to you. Balance is not a goal, as balance too can be stagnant. Constant flux, constant reaction to the circumstances and needs. Constant work at improvement not in search of perfection, not in search of an answer, but in search of the means through which to live properly. That the search may become the right path, and all along have carried you to an ever changing destination of love and care.