One of the greatest things life has taught me is that you always have to get up and keep walking on. This is easier said than done, and people say it so easily and do it half-heartedly all of the time. People will say "if you get knocked down, get up again, hold your head high, and keep walking on." But how many people actually do this?
I am telling you all now, if you don't absorb this valuable life lesson into that sponge-like part of your mind where all important knowledge is stored, then you will be sorry. (I use the sponge metaphor because your mind can absorb and hold so much valuable life knowledge, such as: who to give your heart to, what makes you happy, how to not get hurt... but then all it takes is one wringing squeeze, one that empties your heart of that warm liquid that cushioned it, to leave your mind dried up of any valuable thought energy.)
People give up way too easily. As I write this from my bedroom in my parents' house, I hear my younger sister from the living room singing "I hate chemistryyyyy." Everyday, as she takes this class that she implies is similar to setting yourself on fire, my sister could easily give up. But she doesn't, because it is important, and if she doesn't complete all of the necessary courses then she won't be able to help people with sports injuries. And that is her long term goal; a specific ending to a long and hard struggle, that she won't reach until she trudges through the muck day after day. And sometimes this muck turns to quick sand, and it feels like you just can't go on, the trials and tribulations are pulling you down, and will soon devour you whole. You could try to pull your way out, there are branches of opportunity all around you, but whats the point? It would be easier to let go and face a fate of defeat.
But that's stupid, and if you have done that, or are willing to do that, then you are stupid. I don't care how harsh it sounds, do you know what you are giving up? Everything that makes you smile and everything that you consider beautiful.
So whether it's chemistry, heartache, illness, the way your dogs keep tipping over your trash even though you've tried so many times to restrain them, don't give up. And don't stay down when you get knocked over. And trust me, you'll get knocked over hundreds of times in life. No, thousands of times. Maybe millions. It doesn't matter. You always get back up. Even when quick sand is pulling you down, whispering in your ear messages of weakness, "you can't do it, hang your head." When you're down, you get back up, every time, and you keep walking on. Because the only defeat is your lack of sight on all that's good and true. Look at all of the beauty. It still shines brighter. Give it proper attention.
11 June 2012
04 June 2012
The world breaks everyone and afterward, many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave, impartially. If you are none of these, you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.
—Ernest Hemingway in A Farewell to Arms
28 May 2012
I am a woman of many words. Sometimes too many. During highschool and college I always had the same writing deficiency: Writing too much. While classmates complained about the inexplicable amount of page numbers we were required for our papers, I silently complained too, but for a different reason. They always had trouble writing enough pages, while I always had to refrain from writing too much.
So with that thought in mind, I couldn't help but smile to myself when I read about Ernest Hemingway's (supposed) dare he received from collegues, to write an entire story in less than ten words. As the rumor goes, this is what he wrote:
"For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."
It took me a minute to realize the depth of meaning that these six words held. And before I knew it, I was staring off into the distance, imagining a story, one that I was literally making up in my head as I thought it, but also one that I felt was written by Hemingway himself. Perhaps it was even a true story, that he experienced in his lifetime. As I stared off under the intoxicated influence of my imagination, I pictured the story played out scene by scene. First, I saw a man who I imagined to be Hemingway, pulling the baby shoes out of a flimsy and small cardboard box. He hands them to an annonymous male buyer. I imagine this buyer has a pregant wife at home, and this would be his first child. Perhaps this buyer had read the six words in a newspaper ad and, due to his low income as a millworker, decided that he should buy baby shoes secondhand. The buyer, however, did not realize the emotional sensitivity of the purchase before he met up to retrieve the delicate little shoes.
At the home of the current baby shoe owners I see a wife and a husband (aka the seller, and maybe even Hemingway himself) and the buyer. The three people brought together by fate stand in the quiet and unusually clean living room. Every coaster is perfectly stacked, every picture frame is tilted in the same direction. Not a single decorative item is out of place. The floors, walls, and coffee table look as if they've been dusted and cleaned an unhealthy amount of times.
The buyer prepares to make a purchase that he had, only hours before, mistakenly believed to be an innocent transaction. But as the seconds tick, the buyer realizes more and more that what he's stepped into is a graveyard. The house might as while have caution taped wrapped all around it, warning all outsiders that its no longer a home, but a house condemned by tragedy. As the seller slowly hands the shoes over to the buyer, the seller's wife stands near the fireplace, her whole body tense, as if she only moments ago witnessed a traincrash that killed every passenger. That train also carried her maternal instinct to maintain her womanly strength. She looked as if she would crumble at any second.
The silence seems to pierce the air with overwhelming discomfort, and all three people are regrettfully aware of it. Once the shoes are in the hands of their rightful new owner, a shrieking, underlying grief, one that was buried yet still alive, made its appearance in a husband and wife whose one last connection to the child they lost was in a tiny pair of rubber-soled shoes. Through tears, the wife turns away. She can't stand to look at someone else holding her baby's empty shoes; its as if the purchase of the shoes confirmed that she'd never see her baby grow into a beautiful human being that had her eyes, her husband's mouth, and their family name. The husband does not turn away, instead he stares at the buyer's hands with nervous concern, as if he is worried his hands will hurt the delicate shoes and destroy any possible good the future could bring.
The buyer notices the feel of the rubber, the crisp smell of the shoes' unbroken tongues, and the perfect pattern and bows of the untouched laces. He only notices the shoes' simple characteristics because they are no longer simple, they now contain great significance, a significance that's tied to the broken hearts of what was supposed to be a family, but now is nothing more than a man and a woman who lost the only thing that mattered to them.
It's as if the shoes were dipped in gold, the buyer thinks. That's how valuable they feel in his hands. But no, this is no gold. Gold implies that the shoes are worthy of positive essence and light. Beautiful, bright, heavenly, something to be shown off. But no, the shoes do not represent that at all, they are cursed, and they only make the buyer feel pity and emptiness.
The buyer apologizes as his places the little shoes back into the little cardboard box. A box with four flimsy walls, that enclose the shoes in a cloud of darkness that not even shadows can get into. The wife still stands near the fireplace, her back facing the two men. As if turning around without walking anywhere would make her disappear from sight. Such is the delusional thinking that accompanies devastating loss. The husband, standing with the buyer, nods his head with understanding. This is the fourth potential buyer to turn down the offer, and all three parties know why. The grief of losing a child spreads a pain through the air that lingers on all objects, thoughts, ideas, and human senses. Every person who walks through the door of this home can feel it, and it will soak into your being quick, like an infection. The potential buyer thanks the husband and wife for their time, tips his hat, and as politely as possible removes himself from the premises before his own heart shatters from the heart-broken air.
So there... I took a six word story and created a story containing... well, a lot more words.. Thus proves my point that I tend to get carried away with my recording of words, and I end up writing and writing until the clock hands spin wildly. This can be a good thing: it makes for a juicy story filled with lots of details. But its not always good. Too much wordiness takes away from the simplicity of the message being sent. (Remember, professors don't want you to go OVER the page limit, either).. But I digress..
The more important point that is proven is that Ernest Hemingway, one of the greatest writers to ever exist, was actually able to write a story filled with so much detail, emotion, and meaning, without using more than six words. I may have used my own imagination to help portray all that the story entails, but still, he was the one that wrote it first.
Stories are stories no matter how long.
So with that thought in mind, I couldn't help but smile to myself when I read about Ernest Hemingway's (supposed) dare he received from collegues, to write an entire story in less than ten words. As the rumor goes, this is what he wrote:
"For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."
It took me a minute to realize the depth of meaning that these six words held. And before I knew it, I was staring off into the distance, imagining a story, one that I was literally making up in my head as I thought it, but also one that I felt was written by Hemingway himself. Perhaps it was even a true story, that he experienced in his lifetime. As I stared off under the intoxicated influence of my imagination, I pictured the story played out scene by scene. First, I saw a man who I imagined to be Hemingway, pulling the baby shoes out of a flimsy and small cardboard box. He hands them to an annonymous male buyer. I imagine this buyer has a pregant wife at home, and this would be his first child. Perhaps this buyer had read the six words in a newspaper ad and, due to his low income as a millworker, decided that he should buy baby shoes secondhand. The buyer, however, did not realize the emotional sensitivity of the purchase before he met up to retrieve the delicate little shoes.
At the home of the current baby shoe owners I see a wife and a husband (aka the seller, and maybe even Hemingway himself) and the buyer. The three people brought together by fate stand in the quiet and unusually clean living room. Every coaster is perfectly stacked, every picture frame is tilted in the same direction. Not a single decorative item is out of place. The floors, walls, and coffee table look as if they've been dusted and cleaned an unhealthy amount of times.
The buyer prepares to make a purchase that he had, only hours before, mistakenly believed to be an innocent transaction. But as the seconds tick, the buyer realizes more and more that what he's stepped into is a graveyard. The house might as while have caution taped wrapped all around it, warning all outsiders that its no longer a home, but a house condemned by tragedy. As the seller slowly hands the shoes over to the buyer, the seller's wife stands near the fireplace, her whole body tense, as if she only moments ago witnessed a traincrash that killed every passenger. That train also carried her maternal instinct to maintain her womanly strength. She looked as if she would crumble at any second.
The silence seems to pierce the air with overwhelming discomfort, and all three people are regrettfully aware of it. Once the shoes are in the hands of their rightful new owner, a shrieking, underlying grief, one that was buried yet still alive, made its appearance in a husband and wife whose one last connection to the child they lost was in a tiny pair of rubber-soled shoes. Through tears, the wife turns away. She can't stand to look at someone else holding her baby's empty shoes; its as if the purchase of the shoes confirmed that she'd never see her baby grow into a beautiful human being that had her eyes, her husband's mouth, and their family name. The husband does not turn away, instead he stares at the buyer's hands with nervous concern, as if he is worried his hands will hurt the delicate shoes and destroy any possible good the future could bring.
The buyer notices the feel of the rubber, the crisp smell of the shoes' unbroken tongues, and the perfect pattern and bows of the untouched laces. He only notices the shoes' simple characteristics because they are no longer simple, they now contain great significance, a significance that's tied to the broken hearts of what was supposed to be a family, but now is nothing more than a man and a woman who lost the only thing that mattered to them.
It's as if the shoes were dipped in gold, the buyer thinks. That's how valuable they feel in his hands. But no, this is no gold. Gold implies that the shoes are worthy of positive essence and light. Beautiful, bright, heavenly, something to be shown off. But no, the shoes do not represent that at all, they are cursed, and they only make the buyer feel pity and emptiness.
The buyer apologizes as his places the little shoes back into the little cardboard box. A box with four flimsy walls, that enclose the shoes in a cloud of darkness that not even shadows can get into. The wife still stands near the fireplace, her back facing the two men. As if turning around without walking anywhere would make her disappear from sight. Such is the delusional thinking that accompanies devastating loss. The husband, standing with the buyer, nods his head with understanding. This is the fourth potential buyer to turn down the offer, and all three parties know why. The grief of losing a child spreads a pain through the air that lingers on all objects, thoughts, ideas, and human senses. Every person who walks through the door of this home can feel it, and it will soak into your being quick, like an infection. The potential buyer thanks the husband and wife for their time, tips his hat, and as politely as possible removes himself from the premises before his own heart shatters from the heart-broken air.
So there... I took a six word story and created a story containing... well, a lot more words.. Thus proves my point that I tend to get carried away with my recording of words, and I end up writing and writing until the clock hands spin wildly. This can be a good thing: it makes for a juicy story filled with lots of details. But its not always good. Too much wordiness takes away from the simplicity of the message being sent. (Remember, professors don't want you to go OVER the page limit, either).. But I digress..
The more important point that is proven is that Ernest Hemingway, one of the greatest writers to ever exist, was actually able to write a story filled with so much detail, emotion, and meaning, without using more than six words. I may have used my own imagination to help portray all that the story entails, but still, he was the one that wrote it first.
Stories are stories no matter how long.
16 May 2012
"Write about me."
-Bri Campbell, famous American women's right activist from the 1960s. Responsible for thousands of women receiving equal employment opportunities, including the right to work in upper management positions. (Just kidding, she's my new New Hampshire friend that I occasionally drink Sunday morning Mojitos with on my back porch.)
As a soldier to any and all devices that record the collections of meaningful words, i have to write. And as a soldier to any possible excuse to use these devises to record these words, I have to obey my new friend Bri's demands. My dreamer's brain, although usually drenched in alcohol and thoughts/attention span that resemble that of a 10 year old in a toy store, will always love writing. My brain is where the magic comes from (if you can call it magic, but if you want to call it something to laugh at and feel pity for, i totally feel ya bro), and my love for writing is the fuel that feeds the fire. And these lovely fingers of mine are the machines; they are the hard working ants on the ant hill that exhume all their energy and are the final reason why all of my crazy and sometimes inspirational thoughts get recorded via things like this blog.. or the sidewalk, if i still have the chalk i bought at Rite Aid that time i got high and forgot that i wasn't 12 years old.
Sorry for getting sidetracked, I forgot, i am a soldier. No, not in the U.S. army, a soldier to expression, and inspirational sources, such as my friend Bri who demanded that I write about her. and also to beer, vodka, and wine, and popcorn, puppies that are soft, clouds (did i mention that I might have ADD?) (And also i am drunk).
Anyway, my friend Bri. It took me about ten minutes to figure out how to spell her last name because my other friends in the room were trying to pronounce it like it was the most surprising sound that ever came out of their mouths. "CamP-BULL" "Cam-bull" "WITH A P!" .. Alright guys, calm down. This is a blog not the U.S. Amendments.
Bri is my friend who I just met a few weeks ago. She likes littering, dating strange men who look like they are 12, becoming mute when she drinks, and moving to Alaska. She lives with my other new friend, Tina, on a very pleasant street in the town of Plymouth, New Hampshire. The street happens to be called Pleasant Street. She has been my kind of neighbor for the past few months, but i only just met her and Tina in the past few weeks. I met them one morning after waking up in my bed naked, confused, and hungover, arising from my slumber to the sound of their voices outside my bedroom window. I opened my eyes and listened to their voices and thought, "Who are these people? Burglars? Mailmen? No, those are female voices.. mailwomen? Maybe they are from UPS. Do I have a delivery? A book from Amazon?!?! (Smile grows across my face)... Wait, no its Sunday (smile turns to frown)...ok well i guess I should go find out who they are. Wait, where are my pants?"
Anyway, I realize after the fact that I spent time with Tina and Bri before that morning on the porch.. we hung out several times, but there are some actions that lead me to lose my memories such as drinking wine out of mugs. So, if you are reading this, Tina and Bri, and you remember meeting me before that morning on the porch, then I apologize for not remembering you. (I doubt you remember me though, because I have seen you both drink more alcohol then an alcoholic hobo locked in a wine cellar).
So anyway, as I end this beautiful hand written award winning essay (just kidding, I typed it), I will say that I love meeting new friends, although i hate meeting them only weeks before we all have to go our separate ways. I wish I met all of my new Plymouth friends (aka all the people I met while living in my apartment on Russell st, yes the one with the back mojito porch and naked bed) a long time ago. Even though our time together is ending, I cant help but smile and be thankful that I got to spend time with amazing, hilarious, and kind people, who care more about laughing and making memories then drama, money, and punching people in the face (sorry I just saw an episode of Real Housewives of NY, it was scary). So in the future, whenever I sit in my new home in Massachusetts, and feel sad and lonely, I will hug this little Shitzu that I found in the dumpster outside of my Russell Street apartment, and I will think of the awesome people I met here while living on Russell st, Plymouth, New Hampshire.. You guys all know how to live with a genuine love for life and because of you I will look at life more confidently. Drunk hugs and kisses and the imaginary clinking of plastic-dollar-store glasses filled with Mojitos.
-Bri Campbell, famous American women's right activist from the 1960s. Responsible for thousands of women receiving equal employment opportunities, including the right to work in upper management positions. (Just kidding, she's my new New Hampshire friend that I occasionally drink Sunday morning Mojitos with on my back porch.)
As a soldier to any and all devices that record the collections of meaningful words, i have to write. And as a soldier to any possible excuse to use these devises to record these words, I have to obey my new friend Bri's demands. My dreamer's brain, although usually drenched in alcohol and thoughts/attention span that resemble that of a 10 year old in a toy store, will always love writing. My brain is where the magic comes from (if you can call it magic, but if you want to call it something to laugh at and feel pity for, i totally feel ya bro), and my love for writing is the fuel that feeds the fire. And these lovely fingers of mine are the machines; they are the hard working ants on the ant hill that exhume all their energy and are the final reason why all of my crazy and sometimes inspirational thoughts get recorded via things like this blog.. or the sidewalk, if i still have the chalk i bought at Rite Aid that time i got high and forgot that i wasn't 12 years old.
Sorry for getting sidetracked, I forgot, i am a soldier. No, not in the U.S. army, a soldier to expression, and inspirational sources, such as my friend Bri who demanded that I write about her. and also to beer, vodka, and wine, and popcorn, puppies that are soft, clouds (did i mention that I might have ADD?) (And also i am drunk).
Anyway, my friend Bri. It took me about ten minutes to figure out how to spell her last name because my other friends in the room were trying to pronounce it like it was the most surprising sound that ever came out of their mouths. "CamP-BULL" "Cam-bull" "WITH A P!" .. Alright guys, calm down. This is a blog not the U.S. Amendments.
Bri is my friend who I just met a few weeks ago. She likes littering, dating strange men who look like they are 12, becoming mute when she drinks, and moving to Alaska. She lives with my other new friend, Tina, on a very pleasant street in the town of Plymouth, New Hampshire. The street happens to be called Pleasant Street. She has been my kind of neighbor for the past few months, but i only just met her and Tina in the past few weeks. I met them one morning after waking up in my bed naked, confused, and hungover, arising from my slumber to the sound of their voices outside my bedroom window. I opened my eyes and listened to their voices and thought, "Who are these people? Burglars? Mailmen? No, those are female voices.. mailwomen? Maybe they are from UPS. Do I have a delivery? A book from Amazon?!?! (Smile grows across my face)... Wait, no its Sunday (smile turns to frown)...ok well i guess I should go find out who they are. Wait, where are my pants?"
Anyway, I realize after the fact that I spent time with Tina and Bri before that morning on the porch.. we hung out several times, but there are some actions that lead me to lose my memories such as drinking wine out of mugs. So, if you are reading this, Tina and Bri, and you remember meeting me before that morning on the porch, then I apologize for not remembering you. (I doubt you remember me though, because I have seen you both drink more alcohol then an alcoholic hobo locked in a wine cellar).
So anyway, as I end this beautiful hand written award winning essay (just kidding, I typed it), I will say that I love meeting new friends, although i hate meeting them only weeks before we all have to go our separate ways. I wish I met all of my new Plymouth friends (aka all the people I met while living in my apartment on Russell st, yes the one with the back mojito porch and naked bed) a long time ago. Even though our time together is ending, I cant help but smile and be thankful that I got to spend time with amazing, hilarious, and kind people, who care more about laughing and making memories then drama, money, and punching people in the face (sorry I just saw an episode of Real Housewives of NY, it was scary). So in the future, whenever I sit in my new home in Massachusetts, and feel sad and lonely, I will hug this little Shitzu that I found in the dumpster outside of my Russell Street apartment, and I will think of the awesome people I met here while living on Russell st, Plymouth, New Hampshire.. You guys all know how to live with a genuine love for life and because of you I will look at life more confidently. Drunk hugs and kisses and the imaginary clinking of plastic-dollar-store glasses filled with Mojitos.
06 May 2012
If I wrote out my thoughts exactly as they appeared in my mind I think I would overwhelm every reader. Free Association can be desribed as "a spontaneous, logically unconstrained and undirected association of ideas, emotions, and feelings." I think its very therapeutic to use this technique, which is basically just a spewing of thoughts out of whichever linguistic tool you use for communication (i.e. your mouth, pen, pencil, computer keyboard, etc.). Its nice to just get all of those ideas, thoughts, words, and images out.. straight out and into the world. So here it goes:
3 more minutes until I go to bed, or atleast until the deadline I set for bed, but will I really meet it? Probably not. I wish i could focus more on how to form my sentences but the distractions of being alive keep arriving at my mind's door; the fact that the shoulder I'm leaning on still hurts from pushups, and now I can smell cigarette smoke. Which for me, is a distraction, because I think I am slightly addicted via second-hand smoke and my love for strawberry flavored cigars.
(15 Minutes Later)
I'm back, got slightly distracted again, of course, but no matter... I am barely able to feel my hands anymore, which is hard because I need them to associate freely, unless I change my mind and decide to use my mouth. But I don't like this idea. I look at the words I type as I use my periphial vision to simeltaneously focus on my sister drinking out of a water-filled gaterade bottle behind the computer. She tilts her head back as she downs at least 6 full gulps, which I can only make out by her sillouhette gleaming with a black outline against the porch light and contrasting night sky.
She gets up goes inside. I ignore my friend Abby as she talks over my typing, and I surprise myself with my multi-tasking skills.
"I love how of everything we wrote on our "TO-DO BEFORE COLLEGE ENDS" list, the only thing that was crossed off was "SHAVE PHANTOM"." -Abby
I picked up that line, at least... (It must have sent signal off in my brain, one with a red flag of significance). Why is this line significant to me? Because it made me laugh; it led to a small high off of life, a positive distraction so meaningful that it actually distracted me from my experiment on distraction via the use of free association. So what did I learn from this free association therapy session? That distractions are helpful to us; they provide us with a momentary escape from our inner world, the sometimes irritating focus on our own thoughts. And we all know that we all need that escape sometimes.
So basically, people, free association is just a rant.. but a rant meant to release inner energy that can maybe help you learn more about yourself. So there is my rant. Maybe I'll analyze it later, but for now I have to go to bed.. it's way past my 3 minute deadline and my free association/rant session distracted me enough to clear my mind.
3 more minutes until I go to bed, or atleast until the deadline I set for bed, but will I really meet it? Probably not. I wish i could focus more on how to form my sentences but the distractions of being alive keep arriving at my mind's door; the fact that the shoulder I'm leaning on still hurts from pushups, and now I can smell cigarette smoke. Which for me, is a distraction, because I think I am slightly addicted via second-hand smoke and my love for strawberry flavored cigars.
(15 Minutes Later)
I'm back, got slightly distracted again, of course, but no matter... I am barely able to feel my hands anymore, which is hard because I need them to associate freely, unless I change my mind and decide to use my mouth. But I don't like this idea. I look at the words I type as I use my periphial vision to simeltaneously focus on my sister drinking out of a water-filled gaterade bottle behind the computer. She tilts her head back as she downs at least 6 full gulps, which I can only make out by her sillouhette gleaming with a black outline against the porch light and contrasting night sky.
She gets up goes inside. I ignore my friend Abby as she talks over my typing, and I surprise myself with my multi-tasking skills.
"I love how of everything we wrote on our "TO-DO BEFORE COLLEGE ENDS" list, the only thing that was crossed off was "SHAVE PHANTOM"." -Abby
I picked up that line, at least... (It must have sent signal off in my brain, one with a red flag of significance). Why is this line significant to me? Because it made me laugh; it led to a small high off of life, a positive distraction so meaningful that it actually distracted me from my experiment on distraction via the use of free association. So what did I learn from this free association therapy session? That distractions are helpful to us; they provide us with a momentary escape from our inner world, the sometimes irritating focus on our own thoughts. And we all know that we all need that escape sometimes.
So basically, people, free association is just a rant.. but a rant meant to release inner energy that can maybe help you learn more about yourself. So there is my rant. Maybe I'll analyze it later, but for now I have to go to bed.. it's way past my 3 minute deadline and my free association/rant session distracted me enough to clear my mind.
As I sit here on my porch enjoying every bite of this salami and cheese sandwich, I can't help but notice that on the other side of the porch, my sister, Shannon, and my downstairs neighbor, Abby, glance at me between bits of hysteric laughter. I decide to observe their animalistic behavior more carefully, as I know their laughter is somehow tied to me. As I watch Shannon and Abby express joy at my expense, I learn two things. #1: the species of animal that their animalistic behavior best represents is the Ape species. And #2: Their soulful laughter is coming from the simplest source... a large planting pot, empty of soil, but filling up quickly with empty beer cans. They both take their last sips of their (current) beers, and toss the empty cans onto the pile pot of beer cans. "Sorry Lyndsey, we will plant you something undeneath the cans.. HAHAHA". I guess my Alaskan Daisies will not be moved to the larger pot anytime soon, but I can't complain because I'm happy that people are not littering. I am also happy that my friends can find joy in even the littlest things, be it imaginary beer can plants, the sound of the empty cans hitting the pot, or maybe just the beers themselves (enough beers will make a person love anything).
The lesson is as simple as the thousands of sources of happiness that exist in this universe. We make our own lives and we choose our own happiness. For me, the smell of impending rain, the sound of the banjo, and the way my dogs chase eachother are stimuli for instant euphoria. Everybody has their own personal joy magnets, but they don't need to be limited; they are everywhere. If you want to notice all of the many things around you that can and will lift you up, well that is up to you. I can tell you that if you do notice them, you will be smiling and laughing much more. And if you don't, then you will be missing out on a golden oppurtunity to make more sense of why you are on this Earth.
The lesson is as simple as the thousands of sources of happiness that exist in this universe. We make our own lives and we choose our own happiness. For me, the smell of impending rain, the sound of the banjo, and the way my dogs chase eachother are stimuli for instant euphoria. Everybody has their own personal joy magnets, but they don't need to be limited; they are everywhere. If you want to notice all of the many things around you that can and will lift you up, well that is up to you. I can tell you that if you do notice them, you will be smiling and laughing much more. And if you don't, then you will be missing out on a golden oppurtunity to make more sense of why you are on this Earth.
04 May 2012
As I lay here on this crumb-covered air mattress, on the back porch of my rural New Hampshire apartment complex, I can't help but notice the sting my bare feet receive from the cold air. Nature's warning signs of harsher weather to come are usually my only motivation to go back inside, and as the sun sets, nature tells me that its temperature will only decrease. Mother nature always speaks to me, and for that, I thank her. "Lyndsey, feel that painful numbing in your toes? That's me telling you that the river water is still too cold to jump in. Wait until mid-May.."... "Lyndsey, notice how you can't see the road anymore? Do you see any paths to guide you otherwise? No. I don't care how tempting these trees are, they don't know how to take care of a human in need. Turn back." ...
Thank God for warning signs, and for our ability, as humans to receive these signals that unpleasantness is to come.. and even more thanks for our ability to use our sacred Free Will, to make the conscious choice to alter our current situations in search of comfort and peace. Free Will is one of the most valuable traits a human soul can possess.
"And if the old guards still offend
They got nothing left on which you depend
So enlist every ounce
Of your bright blood
And off with their heads
Jump from a book
You're not obliged to swallow anything you despise."
-The Shins
Thank God for warning signs, and for our ability, as humans to receive these signals that unpleasantness is to come.. and even more thanks for our ability to use our sacred Free Will, to make the conscious choice to alter our current situations in search of comfort and peace. Free Will is one of the most valuable traits a human soul can possess.
"And if the old guards still offend
They got nothing left on which you depend
So enlist every ounce
Of your bright blood
And off with their heads
Jump from a book
You're not obliged to swallow anything you despise."
-The Shins
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