I want to live a good life. I want to dream, to fail, to succeed, to experience the world, and to know what it means to be alive. I want to be present in my life, working to the best of my ability, and glorifying God—if not with my achievement—with my dedication.
I value my religion, and as such, it is the central force of my Good Life. I believe that it is our purpose to glorify God and achieve as best we can with what He has given us. God has blessed us all with the gift of life on this earth, individual talents, and the treasure we all possess. I want to treat others as I want to be treated, if not better. As proclaimed by Jesus in Matthew 25:40, “Insomuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” With all that He has given us, we must, in turn, give as well, dedicating ourselves to the improvement of the lives of others.
An exemplary figure of this ideal is Jackie Robinson, a man who, as a baseball player, put himself in danger for the advancement of racial equality. His life was threatened wherever he went, yet continued to remain a public figure. He is a true hero who stood up for the better treatment of others, and he said: “A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.” It is right and just to do for your fellow human as you would wish to be done unto you.
While sports may contain heroics within the context of the games themselves, they also house many people who have used their talent and subsequent monetary gain to help others. Another legendary baseball player, Roberto Clemente, earned his reputation on and off the field. Besides being one of the most exceptionally talented players in the history of baseball, Roberto constantly reached out to assist those in need. At 38 years old and still a successful player, he died in a plane crash on December 31, 1972. His flight was destined for Nicaragua, whereupon he and others were to deliver goods to victims of a recent earthquake that struck the country. As great a baseball player Roberto Clemente was, he was an even better person. He knew what our life’s importance is, exemplified when he said: “Anytime you have an opportunity to make a difference in this world and you don't do it, you are wasting your time on this earth.” The Good Life is having enough to be able to give to others. Since we surely have more than enough, this is easy. All that we’re missing is actually giving it.
To have safety, security, and the peace of mind that comes with them is what I would have once said to be a crucial aspect of the Good Life. While I still want to feel these, the focus has shifted from living as long as I can to living the best that I can. It is more important to live a life that I can be actively proud of than to rest on the hope that I’ll “have the time later” and not do anything presently about it. We must actively do the best we can, with a constant mindful purpose that allows us to find our passion and follow our dreams. Within this framework, there is no “next time,” in the respect that we cannot limit ourselves with the thought that we’ll try harder at a future opportunity. That isn’t to say that we can never rest, but as in baseball, the most effective change-ups are thrown after an especially strong fastball. Thus, the harder we work, the more satisfying our rest will be. Even when we have reached success, we must not let achievement limit us either. As Jack Kerouac wrote in his novel Dharma Bums, to the character that represented himself: “When you get to the top of the mountain, keep climbing, Smith.” We may never finish contributing to each other, to society, or to our own growth. To live a life that we can look back on and be proud of, we must never avoid dedicating ourselves.
For one to truly know what happiness is, it may be necessary to know the stark opposite: depression, and even its deepest depths, suicidal ideation. In the same semester that I focused on the ideas of Getting a Life, I also explored self-inflicted death in my psychology topic course, entitled Suicide and Depression. Throughout the semester, I learned about how an individual may want to end his or her life, being overcome with feelings of helplessness, haplessness, and hopelessness. Studies have shown, however, that the vast majority of suicides are committed by people who do not truly want to die. They have just come to the conclusion that their lives cannot be turned around, and they exhibit their poor coping skills in a horrible way. At the class’ conclusion, we were all given certificates that named us as “suicidal interventionists,” with the purpose of—if ever given the chance—saving a human life. If we ever come into contact with a suicidal individual, we are to help them as best we can; I pray that I will be able to get that person to understand that while life can certainly be bad, it can also be good.
To live a Good Life, I want to appreciate what is around me, understanding that my life can always be worse than it is. With sports occasionally providing a microcosm of life, I will point to this year’s football season, wherein the Tennessee Titans won their first four games decisively, and immediately received media speculation about being the best team in the NFL. When star linebacker Keith Bullock was asked about the team’s prospects, he said, “We still have a chance to go 4-12.” This is the type of attitude that I like. I don’t mean this because I’m a fan of a rival team, but rather, because it exemplifies that in life, you just can’t afford to become complacent. You must seize control, and understand that, however you perceive your life to be, your situation can change in an instant. I have often envied those that were injured, or were in some kind of physical rehabilitation, for I felt that they truly know what it is to appreciate what is to have life and limb. I remember reading of a cancer patient when I was younger, who had said that when he knew that he only had a short time to live, the final years that followed were truly “gravy.” He was able to see the importance of living your life and enjoying it, all by feeling a sense of finality by recognizing its end. We may never know when our heart will cease to beat, but we can understand that it will, and use that knowledge to empower us.
To know wabi-sabi is an essential part of the Good Life. It is the appreciation not of what is pristine and “perfect,” but what is used, and has shown signs of life. Most appropriately, this can be applied to ourselves, and an unloved aspect of getting older in this society, that seems to be just as cringe-worthy as aging itself: wrinkles. It’s fair to say that most people that have them want to get rid of them, and they will try any new drug or procedure to smooth their face to a degree that defies physiology. When you realize where how these unwanted “blemishes” form, however, it gets you to think: why would you not want to show the world that you’ve laughed? Why would you hide that you’ve smiled, that you’ve squinted to see the world, or that you’ve shown concern for those that you care about? If Botox induced memory-loss, you wouldn’t trade the experiences that have defined your life for what you think is a superficial enhancement, would you?
The Good Life is to keep present the idea that we have a life to begin with. Our lives contain endless possibilities, so why would we not embrace it for what it is? Often we hear that people view their existence as a glass that is either half-full or half-empty, denoting whether they approach the world with an optimistic or pessimistic disposition. Regardless of whether you ascribe to either side, why not just be happy that you have a glass?
All of these ideas have a shared message: with one life, why waste time? Why limit yourself, or keep yourself from succeeding, or caring for others? "I want to be remembered as a ballplayer who gave all he had to give," said Roberto Clemente. May we all aspire to be people who gave all we had to truly live.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
To Be Wise
Wisdom is not exclusive to any individual, culture, or time-period. I have heard wisdom spoken by various people in my life, with some instances hitting me deeply enough to remain in my mind. I may never forget them, and I hope I never do, as they all tell of what it means to be wise.
Socrates journeyed to discover the wisest person in Athens, for he was told that it was he by the Oracle at Delphi. The success of his expedition was realized when he found that while others betray their knowledge by speaking on that which they know little, he did not venture to explain that which he did not know. Socrates said: “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” One might interpret this as being self-deprecating, but it is far beyond that; it is truth. Acknowledging our limitations is freeing, for it inspires us to overcome them.
Found within the pages of Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums is a message on both hiking and life, directed toward the character that Kerouac based on himself: "When you get to the top of a mountain keep climbing, Smith." This is sage advice for all who feel that they can rest on previous successes in their lives. We are human, and as mortal beings, we should never rob ourselves the opportunity to contribute to the world while we are fully capable of doing so. To never willfully end our pursuit of knowledge or our journey for contentment is to be wise.
A famous man boarded a train, and during the ride, was asked for his ticket by an attendant. Though aging, the man knew he had it, and searched his coat pockets, his wallet, and even under his seat, but he still did not see it. The ticket-taker then recognized the man, and decided to give him a break. “You don’t need to show me your ticket, I know who you are!” he said. “So do I,” answered the man, “but I don’t know where I’m going!” Perhaps it is most wise of us to know our place in the world. We must know that we have to prepare for our destination. We must have an idea of what we hope to accomplish in our lives, and we must understand that the application of our mental and physical effort must be goal-oriented.
Even in sculpture, one of the smallest carvings embodies one of the greatest messages of wisdom. Known to most as figures representing “See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil,” they are the “Three Wise Monkeys.” In some iterations, there is even a fourth, the lesser known “Do no evil,” which crosses its arms, or in some recreations, holds its crotch. They are wise, for there is wisdom in living one’s life without vice and in gaining pleasure though appreciation of the world around us, instead of relying on our sinful desires for what we perceive as positive results. These figures come both large and small, and are found in many forms, from jewelry to table stands. Traditionally, they were crafted to a palm-sized set, as was the one famously carried by Mahatma Gandhi.
Gandhi was himself a man of great wisdom. He is remembered around the world for accomplishing a great deal with what little he had. He was wise, for he created change by changing how to create it: through peace. To be wise is to do the extraordinary, but to realize the ordinary means by which it may be accomplished. The first step is to escape the chains of lust, extravagance and possession that our society values so much. If we release the bonds, we may escape the tunnel-vision that keeps us focused on such meaninglessness.
It is wise to make do with what you have, and to be happy with what simple pleasures we are capable of enjoying on earth. As humans, we are all capable of being wise. The only restraint to living a life of wisdom is our perception of our past and what we already know. A simple shift in thinking would allow us to realize that nothing in life is to be taken for granted, for we do not know when our abilities may weaken or our time may end. We expect so much from our world, including (but not limited to): our neighbors, our country, our God, and our own bodies. We have been telling ourselves that nothing is good enough for us, but when we understand that it is we who are not good enough for what is around us, we may be content. As Claude Bernard said, “It is what we think we know already that often prevents us from learning.” We must forget some of our education and replace it by gaining true knowledge. We are not all-powerful, but we may all be empowered by our lack of power.
Wisdom appears when we are not awaiting it, and often exposes itself after its performance has ended, when it has had time to grow in our minds. Throughout time, people have remembered those that are wise, for we are eager to learn by the examples they set, and wish to follow in the paths they have made. While we may never achieve what Socrates and others have, it is important to think of them, so that we can improve our own qualities and become wiser. To question life is to seek wisdom, and to be wise is to understand that we may never know the answers.
Socrates journeyed to discover the wisest person in Athens, for he was told that it was he by the Oracle at Delphi. The success of his expedition was realized when he found that while others betray their knowledge by speaking on that which they know little, he did not venture to explain that which he did not know. Socrates said: “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” One might interpret this as being self-deprecating, but it is far beyond that; it is truth. Acknowledging our limitations is freeing, for it inspires us to overcome them.
Found within the pages of Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums is a message on both hiking and life, directed toward the character that Kerouac based on himself: "When you get to the top of a mountain keep climbing, Smith." This is sage advice for all who feel that they can rest on previous successes in their lives. We are human, and as mortal beings, we should never rob ourselves the opportunity to contribute to the world while we are fully capable of doing so. To never willfully end our pursuit of knowledge or our journey for contentment is to be wise.
A famous man boarded a train, and during the ride, was asked for his ticket by an attendant. Though aging, the man knew he had it, and searched his coat pockets, his wallet, and even under his seat, but he still did not see it. The ticket-taker then recognized the man, and decided to give him a break. “You don’t need to show me your ticket, I know who you are!” he said. “So do I,” answered the man, “but I don’t know where I’m going!” Perhaps it is most wise of us to know our place in the world. We must know that we have to prepare for our destination. We must have an idea of what we hope to accomplish in our lives, and we must understand that the application of our mental and physical effort must be goal-oriented.
Even in sculpture, one of the smallest carvings embodies one of the greatest messages of wisdom. Known to most as figures representing “See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil,” they are the “Three Wise Monkeys.” In some iterations, there is even a fourth, the lesser known “Do no evil,” which crosses its arms, or in some recreations, holds its crotch. They are wise, for there is wisdom in living one’s life without vice and in gaining pleasure though appreciation of the world around us, instead of relying on our sinful desires for what we perceive as positive results. These figures come both large and small, and are found in many forms, from jewelry to table stands. Traditionally, they were crafted to a palm-sized set, as was the one famously carried by Mahatma Gandhi.
Gandhi was himself a man of great wisdom. He is remembered around the world for accomplishing a great deal with what little he had. He was wise, for he created change by changing how to create it: through peace. To be wise is to do the extraordinary, but to realize the ordinary means by which it may be accomplished. The first step is to escape the chains of lust, extravagance and possession that our society values so much. If we release the bonds, we may escape the tunnel-vision that keeps us focused on such meaninglessness.
It is wise to make do with what you have, and to be happy with what simple pleasures we are capable of enjoying on earth. As humans, we are all capable of being wise. The only restraint to living a life of wisdom is our perception of our past and what we already know. A simple shift in thinking would allow us to realize that nothing in life is to be taken for granted, for we do not know when our abilities may weaken or our time may end. We expect so much from our world, including (but not limited to): our neighbors, our country, our God, and our own bodies. We have been telling ourselves that nothing is good enough for us, but when we understand that it is we who are not good enough for what is around us, we may be content. As Claude Bernard said, “It is what we think we know already that often prevents us from learning.” We must forget some of our education and replace it by gaining true knowledge. We are not all-powerful, but we may all be empowered by our lack of power.
Wisdom appears when we are not awaiting it, and often exposes itself after its performance has ended, when it has had time to grow in our minds. Throughout time, people have remembered those that are wise, for we are eager to learn by the examples they set, and wish to follow in the paths they have made. While we may never achieve what Socrates and others have, it is important to think of them, so that we can improve our own qualities and become wiser. To question life is to seek wisdom, and to be wise is to understand that we may never know the answers.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
What's in a Nickname?
In a series of measures to test whether students are paying attention, Rollins has placed our beloved mascot, the Tar, up for adoption. We may have a chance to save it, though the administration appears set on changing it to something hipper and more easily understood to outsiders. Their ongoing search mirrors similar journeys to find a new college logo and shortened name. Recently, an email survey was sent to gauge the reception that a new nickname would garner, and it was quickly volleyed back, with 60% of respondents suggesting we retain the Tar. 20% offered that the “Fox” should be its successor, but the ruling class has announced that it carries “gender connotations” that would be wholly undesirable. This decision also sets a precedent that would immediately rule out the blue-footed booby. A second survey has been issued, this time presenting five choices, with the option to rank each in the order of one’s liking.
The first choice in the list of five was the Tar, which, naturally, should be everyone’s first choice. The Tar is not only historical, as it directly relates to our past, but it is unique, for no other college in the country uses it as its mascot. Its peculiarity leads to discussions about its origin, allowing people to learn about our school. As we all should know, during World War I, the majority of Rollins’ male students joined the navy. As sailors, they were constantly engaged with tar, which was used to waterproof parts of a ship, and some cases, even clothing. With a naval vessel in use on Lake Virginia, the girls on campus would call the sailors “Tars.” Removing the Tar would cause us to forget about our dedication to service, and it would keep others from learning about our proud history as well.
The second choice was “Mariners,” a name shared by Seattle’s professional baseball team. On the positive side, it would maintain the maritime theme set by the Tar. As for the negative side, there is one pressing issue: what exactly is a mariner? Whereas the Tar elicits a Rollins-related explanation when one asks what it is, the mariner has none. Despite this shortcoming, though, the “First Mates” organization may benefit from the name. Part of the aim of the First Mates is to come up with clever chants to lead the crowd in during sporting events. In the case of last month’s basketball game against the Florida Gators, the two most prevalent chants were the all-too-common “Let’s go Rollins” and the even less inspired “UF sucks.” With this proposed name change, they can always fall back on simply reciting Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Thus, when an opposing player “Listens like a three years’ child, the Mariners hath his will!” Opposing teams will become so enthralled in the epic poem that the game will seem insignificant to the consuming verse, ensuring Rollins’ victory. Other teams do this with cheerleaders; to each, his own, I guess.
“Raiders” was the third choice, borrowing the name of the NFL team presently in Oakland. This could offer the easiest transition, as “raider” could be defined as “pirate,” which would make sense with the First Mates, whose t-shirts are already emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. Everyone would respond well to the pirate theme, because, well, pirates are awesome. Negative side effects may include increased rum consumption and debauchery, while possible positives may include increased rum consumption and debauchery. We could also nickname our nickname the “Raid Brigade,” which would be cute. Overall, perception of the Raider image would depend on one’s stance on pillaging.
“Suns” was listed next in the survey. While the “Rollins Suns” does sound appealing, this too continues the string of professional sports swipes, this case being with Phoenix, Arizona’s NBA franchise. If Rollins decides to retain the motto “Fiat Lux,” however, this could be a winning combination. Attendance at sporting events may dwindle with this change, though, for staring at our teams too long may cause cataracts. And with cancer’s presence in today’s society, the First Mates might want to spend their Fox Funds purchasing SPF-30 lotions to distribute at athletics both in and out of doors.
The “Lakers” was the fifth choice, and obviously the worst. If no one knows what a Tar is, how is anyone going to know what a “Laker” is? Even Microsoft Word rejects both its singular form and its pluralized brethren that lack a capitalized “L.” Sure, we have a lake, but does that really make us lakers? People would see it as being too similar to the Los Angeles Lakers anyway, for the names are, in fact, identical. The popularity of the basketball team makes it obvious that we’ve ripped them off. Besides that, though, Los Angeles’ team shouldn’t even be called “Lakers” to begin with. What lakes are in LA? Maybe the name made more sense when they were the Minneapolis Lakers (10,000 times more sense, to be exact), but now it’s just silly. Los Angeles is obviously devoid of originality, for all that Hollywood can come up with are remakes, sequels, and sequels of remakes. But that’s not to accuse them of being the only team to stubbornly retain its nickname, despite the lack of city-mascot cohesion. When New Orleans’ NBA team moved to Utah, you’d think they would have the sense to stop calling themselves the Jazz; the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was never led by Duke Ellington.
These choices may not be the most intimidating when given the breadth of mascots to choose from, for this country’s sports landscape is littered with Lions, Tigers, Bears, and other “Oh-my!”-inducing carnivores. Considering the range of nicknames found in lesser-known leagues, though, our choices aren’t as wimpy as they could be. Take Japan’s Nippon Professional Baseball, which features such intimidating forces as the “Swallows” and the “Carp.” Even our country’s Major League Soccer throws in two alternative types of names, in the case of Red Bull New York and the Chicago Fire. American Minor League Baseball teams also have their share of oddities, in the case of the Toledo Mud Hens, the Nashville Sounds, and the Montgomery Biscuits. If our choice would come down to an animal, hopefully it would be higher than the last few links on the food chain.
As much as college is a whirlwind of change, can we at least be stuck as Tars? I don’t think the college will earn the commitment of a highly-touted athlete because we’re Swans, or Pancakes, or Snapple. Sure, we all want to be Foxes, but let’s face it, we already are. Just be happy to be a Tar, or you might wake up one day as a Newt.
The first choice in the list of five was the Tar, which, naturally, should be everyone’s first choice. The Tar is not only historical, as it directly relates to our past, but it is unique, for no other college in the country uses it as its mascot. Its peculiarity leads to discussions about its origin, allowing people to learn about our school. As we all should know, during World War I, the majority of Rollins’ male students joined the navy. As sailors, they were constantly engaged with tar, which was used to waterproof parts of a ship, and some cases, even clothing. With a naval vessel in use on Lake Virginia, the girls on campus would call the sailors “Tars.” Removing the Tar would cause us to forget about our dedication to service, and it would keep others from learning about our proud history as well.
The second choice was “Mariners,” a name shared by Seattle’s professional baseball team. On the positive side, it would maintain the maritime theme set by the Tar. As for the negative side, there is one pressing issue: what exactly is a mariner? Whereas the Tar elicits a Rollins-related explanation when one asks what it is, the mariner has none. Despite this shortcoming, though, the “First Mates” organization may benefit from the name. Part of the aim of the First Mates is to come up with clever chants to lead the crowd in during sporting events. In the case of last month’s basketball game against the Florida Gators, the two most prevalent chants were the all-too-common “Let’s go Rollins” and the even less inspired “UF sucks.” With this proposed name change, they can always fall back on simply reciting Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Thus, when an opposing player “Listens like a three years’ child, the Mariners hath his will!” Opposing teams will become so enthralled in the epic poem that the game will seem insignificant to the consuming verse, ensuring Rollins’ victory. Other teams do this with cheerleaders; to each, his own, I guess.
“Raiders” was the third choice, borrowing the name of the NFL team presently in Oakland. This could offer the easiest transition, as “raider” could be defined as “pirate,” which would make sense with the First Mates, whose t-shirts are already emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. Everyone would respond well to the pirate theme, because, well, pirates are awesome. Negative side effects may include increased rum consumption and debauchery, while possible positives may include increased rum consumption and debauchery. We could also nickname our nickname the “Raid Brigade,” which would be cute. Overall, perception of the Raider image would depend on one’s stance on pillaging.
“Suns” was listed next in the survey. While the “Rollins Suns” does sound appealing, this too continues the string of professional sports swipes, this case being with Phoenix, Arizona’s NBA franchise. If Rollins decides to retain the motto “Fiat Lux,” however, this could be a winning combination. Attendance at sporting events may dwindle with this change, though, for staring at our teams too long may cause cataracts. And with cancer’s presence in today’s society, the First Mates might want to spend their Fox Funds purchasing SPF-30 lotions to distribute at athletics both in and out of doors.
The “Lakers” was the fifth choice, and obviously the worst. If no one knows what a Tar is, how is anyone going to know what a “Laker” is? Even Microsoft Word rejects both its singular form and its pluralized brethren that lack a capitalized “L.” Sure, we have a lake, but does that really make us lakers? People would see it as being too similar to the Los Angeles Lakers anyway, for the names are, in fact, identical. The popularity of the basketball team makes it obvious that we’ve ripped them off. Besides that, though, Los Angeles’ team shouldn’t even be called “Lakers” to begin with. What lakes are in LA? Maybe the name made more sense when they were the Minneapolis Lakers (10,000 times more sense, to be exact), but now it’s just silly. Los Angeles is obviously devoid of originality, for all that Hollywood can come up with are remakes, sequels, and sequels of remakes. But that’s not to accuse them of being the only team to stubbornly retain its nickname, despite the lack of city-mascot cohesion. When New Orleans’ NBA team moved to Utah, you’d think they would have the sense to stop calling themselves the Jazz; the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was never led by Duke Ellington.
These choices may not be the most intimidating when given the breadth of mascots to choose from, for this country’s sports landscape is littered with Lions, Tigers, Bears, and other “Oh-my!”-inducing carnivores. Considering the range of nicknames found in lesser-known leagues, though, our choices aren’t as wimpy as they could be. Take Japan’s Nippon Professional Baseball, which features such intimidating forces as the “Swallows” and the “Carp.” Even our country’s Major League Soccer throws in two alternative types of names, in the case of Red Bull New York and the Chicago Fire. American Minor League Baseball teams also have their share of oddities, in the case of the Toledo Mud Hens, the Nashville Sounds, and the Montgomery Biscuits. If our choice would come down to an animal, hopefully it would be higher than the last few links on the food chain.
As much as college is a whirlwind of change, can we at least be stuck as Tars? I don’t think the college will earn the commitment of a highly-touted athlete because we’re Swans, or Pancakes, or Snapple. Sure, we all want to be Foxes, but let’s face it, we already are. Just be happy to be a Tar, or you might wake up one day as a Newt.
My Love of English* (*Subject to Change)
If I have learned nothing else through my fifteen-plus years of education, it is this: I love words. Beyond this simple fact, I have found that I am interested in too many subjects for my own good. As my college transcript shows, I have willingly taken a wide breadth of classes to satisfy each, including forays into medicine, film, music, art, chemistry, and psychology, with none of them satisfying a requirement for graduation from my community college. Through my study of atoms, cardiology, Freud, and Hitchcock, I’ve narrowed my major field of study to the simple word that contains so many: English. Although I’ve rendezvoused with many educational flings, I have found that my greatest romance is not with the varying subject matter, but in the development and transcription of my ideas.
Throughout my schooling, grade-school teachers and college professors alike have communicated that I possess linguistic skills and have encouraged my pursuit of writing. I never paid too much attention to what I did to receive the praise, but it appeared, and I was grateful. Eventually, I began to devote more time and effort to improving myself as a writer, initiating a willful learning process that will hopefully never end.
Writing has become a foundation of my being, but as I’ve come to find out, even greater joy is elicited from sitting down with my work and shaping it with the editor’s blade, the pen. In my experience, I have found that I will make a correction or alteration during every single reading of every paper (including this one). After a session, my papers often end up looking as though they hold more ink from my utensil than from what the printer bestowed upon it. Realizing this gets me to understand that a piece of writing is malleable and can be infinitely edited without ever becoming perfect.
Through each journey between the margins, I’ve learned that adept writers do not channel beautiful writing by opening a tap in their mind and letting publishable sentences flow, but rather, they create masterful work through the art of revision. I could have taken the time to craft all the sentences in this piece in my mind first, honing them in sequential order before writing them down. If I had, however, your eyes would not yet meet these words. Thus, I feel that talented writers do not earn their reputation on the quality of a first draft, but by their ability to revisit their work, locate what can be improved, and truly improve it.
I have yet to decide whether to pursue editing for a publishing house or a newspaper; I merely know of my desire for editing. I believe that one’s college years are the most formative in their career search, so as a way of investing time in my options, I currently serve as a copy-editor for The Sandspur and devote hours a week working in TJ’s as a writing consultant. Working for The Sandspur allows me to experience journalistic editing with a paper that demands excellence from its staff, as it is the oldest college newspaper in Florida, has remarkable tradition, and is the only newspaper I know that tackles such stimulating issues as dormitory defecation.
As a writing consultant, I don’t have my pen to the page as much, but by helping others grasp grammatical concepts, style and cohesiveness, my own abilities are strengthened. Accepting this job was logical for me, for I have always had friends approach me for advice with their own work, that I might look over their papers and help without altering their written thoughts to become my own.
The title English Simplified may seem to reflect an impossible task, but if I am to remain on course in my education, I must be up to the challenge of deciphering the language myself. As clichés go, the work of an editor is never done; even now, I’m thinking of drawing a caret between “never” and “done” and adding the word “ever” at least fifty-seven times. A quote attributed to Oscar Wide states: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.” It would be funny if it weren’t true.
Throughout my schooling, grade-school teachers and college professors alike have communicated that I possess linguistic skills and have encouraged my pursuit of writing. I never paid too much attention to what I did to receive the praise, but it appeared, and I was grateful. Eventually, I began to devote more time and effort to improving myself as a writer, initiating a willful learning process that will hopefully never end.
Writing has become a foundation of my being, but as I’ve come to find out, even greater joy is elicited from sitting down with my work and shaping it with the editor’s blade, the pen. In my experience, I have found that I will make a correction or alteration during every single reading of every paper (including this one). After a session, my papers often end up looking as though they hold more ink from my utensil than from what the printer bestowed upon it. Realizing this gets me to understand that a piece of writing is malleable and can be infinitely edited without ever becoming perfect.
Through each journey between the margins, I’ve learned that adept writers do not channel beautiful writing by opening a tap in their mind and letting publishable sentences flow, but rather, they create masterful work through the art of revision. I could have taken the time to craft all the sentences in this piece in my mind first, honing them in sequential order before writing them down. If I had, however, your eyes would not yet meet these words. Thus, I feel that talented writers do not earn their reputation on the quality of a first draft, but by their ability to revisit their work, locate what can be improved, and truly improve it.
I have yet to decide whether to pursue editing for a publishing house or a newspaper; I merely know of my desire for editing. I believe that one’s college years are the most formative in their career search, so as a way of investing time in my options, I currently serve as a copy-editor for The Sandspur and devote hours a week working in TJ’s as a writing consultant. Working for The Sandspur allows me to experience journalistic editing with a paper that demands excellence from its staff, as it is the oldest college newspaper in Florida, has remarkable tradition, and is the only newspaper I know that tackles such stimulating issues as dormitory defecation.
As a writing consultant, I don’t have my pen to the page as much, but by helping others grasp grammatical concepts, style and cohesiveness, my own abilities are strengthened. Accepting this job was logical for me, for I have always had friends approach me for advice with their own work, that I might look over their papers and help without altering their written thoughts to become my own.
The title English Simplified may seem to reflect an impossible task, but if I am to remain on course in my education, I must be up to the challenge of deciphering the language myself. As clichés go, the work of an editor is never done; even now, I’m thinking of drawing a caret between “never” and “done” and adding the word “ever” at least fifty-seven times. A quote attributed to Oscar Wide states: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.” It would be funny if it weren’t true.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Our Game
In America, we have a multitude of traditions by which we are identified around the world. We have our fattening food, our extravagant entertainment, and most importantly, our pastime, baseball. Baseball has been romanticized at each level of play, from the little leagues in which our nation’s youth plays, up to the big leagues, with fathers taking their sons to share with them the game they grew to love. Yet while baseball is our national pastime, it’s not our favorite sport. Football is surely this country’s passion, with the five months of pigskin overshadowing all other forms of competition in the last months of each year. Baseball may be played during the outdoor months of summer, but nothing compares to a crisp, bright Sunday spent overlooking a 53x100 yard field. Instead, baseball fills a leisure-based niche, as the sport is simply a way to pass the time. Its inherent rules and structure lend itself to being recognized as such. The nine innings of play can drag out, which, while boring to some, provides an excellent social experience. And if you though that was laissez-faire, consider this: if a batter succeeds three out of ten times, he is considered great. Forgetting sports, in what other profession can you have such a low rate and keep your job, much less garner you a raise?
Baseball in Florida is backward, however. In the spring, every team in the Major Leagues is either here or in Arizona, for both places offer ideal weather during the pre-season training month. Once the summer begins, though, teams scatter across the country, settling into their homes for the middle months of the year. Florida in summer is not an ideal place to play, with its repetitive sequence of sweltering heat and pouring rain, neither of which being conducive to playing the game. The happy medium would be the retractable roof, which would allow for open air on temperate days and a controlled environment when nature doesn’t comply. But rather, you have the Marlins in Miami, who are permanently outdoors, and experience an unbelievable amount of rain delays yearly, and the Rays in Tampa, who are permanently indoors, playing in a place that is nationally perceived as ugly. Of course, the walls of the structure are industrial-gray, as if the game were being played in a factory. The field is green, but it’s not grass. There’s light, but it’s not from the sun. Tropicana Field is an artificial, manufactured place, and disservices so human a sport. Contrast it with Chicago’s Wrigley Field, where ivy crawls to coat the outfield wall, or Pittsburgh’s PNC Park, where the skyline juts upward beyond the outfield and the Alleghany. One redeemable feature in Tampa is that the sun is somewhat visible during midday games, as it offers a faint bright spot on the thin white roof. Of course, baseball is a child’s game, so why not play it in a place reminiscent of the place of a child’s daydream: under a bed sheet, with the light from an overhead bulb seeping in through the woven fibers?
Baseball is improbability, unpredictability, and surprise. Nothing touts this better than this year’s Tampa Bay Rays. In their first ten years of existence, the team has amassed plenty more losses than wins, but in 2008, they made the playoffs for the first time and advanced all the way to the World Series. I have been in Tampa to see many games when the team was at its worst, when so few people attended that they began to populate the stadium with stingrays. Gimmicks like their fish tank were intended to attract more patrons, but as they’ve come to find, there’s no substitute for winning. No matter how aquatic the stadium became, all that was gained was the image that the empty seats were rows upon rows of flat blue shark teeth. Being in the dome—which was nationally insulted—watching a team that was never televised outside of their home market sometimes even felt like being in the belly a whale.
I went to Tampa when they had some excitement, which was relative, for most teams do not celebrate when they balance their amount of wins and losses. That’s what their fun became—while other teams enjoyed division championships and playoff series (the Yankees not included), the Rays were content seeing how deep into the season they could have a .500 record.
In the past, my dad always thought it was fun to check the standings during the first week of the season to see what teams would be on top after only a handful of games. If the Yankees lost their opening game and the Rays won, it was bizarre to see Tampa Bay above New York in the next day’s standings. This year, however, things were different. “It’s May, and the Rays are still on top!” my dad had said. This time, it didn’t change. Amazingly, their performance never slacked, and even when experiencing major injuries that would set even the best teams back, their collective effort overcame the loss of an individual player. They deserved to win.
I’ve seen the Rays skim the bottom of the standings, I’ve watched as they took baby steps to gain respect, and now, I’ve seen them near the peak of every team’s aspiration. They were eliminated from the World Series on this very night, and their unexpected season came just a few games short of championship victory. But how did they do it? Because baseball allows one’s dreams to be larger than one’s payroll. There’s room for hope in its open fields, and those who love the game know exactly where to look for it.
Baseball in Florida is backward, however. In the spring, every team in the Major Leagues is either here or in Arizona, for both places offer ideal weather during the pre-season training month. Once the summer begins, though, teams scatter across the country, settling into their homes for the middle months of the year. Florida in summer is not an ideal place to play, with its repetitive sequence of sweltering heat and pouring rain, neither of which being conducive to playing the game. The happy medium would be the retractable roof, which would allow for open air on temperate days and a controlled environment when nature doesn’t comply. But rather, you have the Marlins in Miami, who are permanently outdoors, and experience an unbelievable amount of rain delays yearly, and the Rays in Tampa, who are permanently indoors, playing in a place that is nationally perceived as ugly. Of course, the walls of the structure are industrial-gray, as if the game were being played in a factory. The field is green, but it’s not grass. There’s light, but it’s not from the sun. Tropicana Field is an artificial, manufactured place, and disservices so human a sport. Contrast it with Chicago’s Wrigley Field, where ivy crawls to coat the outfield wall, or Pittsburgh’s PNC Park, where the skyline juts upward beyond the outfield and the Alleghany. One redeemable feature in Tampa is that the sun is somewhat visible during midday games, as it offers a faint bright spot on the thin white roof. Of course, baseball is a child’s game, so why not play it in a place reminiscent of the place of a child’s daydream: under a bed sheet, with the light from an overhead bulb seeping in through the woven fibers?
Baseball is improbability, unpredictability, and surprise. Nothing touts this better than this year’s Tampa Bay Rays. In their first ten years of existence, the team has amassed plenty more losses than wins, but in 2008, they made the playoffs for the first time and advanced all the way to the World Series. I have been in Tampa to see many games when the team was at its worst, when so few people attended that they began to populate the stadium with stingrays. Gimmicks like their fish tank were intended to attract more patrons, but as they’ve come to find, there’s no substitute for winning. No matter how aquatic the stadium became, all that was gained was the image that the empty seats were rows upon rows of flat blue shark teeth. Being in the dome—which was nationally insulted—watching a team that was never televised outside of their home market sometimes even felt like being in the belly a whale.
I went to Tampa when they had some excitement, which was relative, for most teams do not celebrate when they balance their amount of wins and losses. That’s what their fun became—while other teams enjoyed division championships and playoff series (the Yankees not included), the Rays were content seeing how deep into the season they could have a .500 record.
In the past, my dad always thought it was fun to check the standings during the first week of the season to see what teams would be on top after only a handful of games. If the Yankees lost their opening game and the Rays won, it was bizarre to see Tampa Bay above New York in the next day’s standings. This year, however, things were different. “It’s May, and the Rays are still on top!” my dad had said. This time, it didn’t change. Amazingly, their performance never slacked, and even when experiencing major injuries that would set even the best teams back, their collective effort overcame the loss of an individual player. They deserved to win.
I’ve seen the Rays skim the bottom of the standings, I’ve watched as they took baby steps to gain respect, and now, I’ve seen them near the peak of every team’s aspiration. They were eliminated from the World Series on this very night, and their unexpected season came just a few games short of championship victory. But how did they do it? Because baseball allows one’s dreams to be larger than one’s payroll. There’s room for hope in its open fields, and those who love the game know exactly where to look for it.
A Tale of Two Roosevelts
Ask Americans where the political state of the country lies today, and they’re likely to say, “Washington D.C.” Unfortunately, this is not a state. The figurative state of politics is just as tricky to pin down; today’s game seems to consist of lying, false representation, and slander of one’s opponent. When watching a debate, the viewer is bombarded with ideas, ideals, questions that go unanswered, and answers that leave one with questions. It’s all impossible to decipher without the aid of objective third-party analysis, which, of course, is now virtually impossible due to the biases that networks maintain. Through these unfortunate truths, a question emerges: why is everything in politics inherently vague? The answer, sadly, is that history has shown that the victor is the one with the least definable goals.
Let’s go back to the early 1900’s, when the political ideal in power was neither liberalism nor conservatism, but Progressivism. Both Republicans and Democrats were involved in the movement, for it was apolitical, with both parties operating toward the same widespread goals.
Following William McKinley’s death, Teddy Roosevelt assumed the Presidency in 1901. On a national level, he began the era that was ripe with what democracy is all about: a government that acts on the wishes of the voting majority. The Progressives held the presidency for five consecutive terms, and in that time they initiated the ratification of four Amendments. Without their proficiency, the public wouldn’t have nearly as much voice in politics. Thanks to them, we can not only vote on state-wide referendums, but we can petition to put our own on the ballot, we can elect our senators, we can recall our governor to elect Arnold Schwarzenegger, we can vote in presidential primaries, and we can allow women to take part in it all. It’s safe to say that their impact on American democracy was profound.
But how did they secure the country’s highest office for twenty years? Because from the beginning, Progressive candidates campaigned with their goals at the forefront, clearly stating them, so as to attract voters who wanted the changes they proposed. People at the time wanted more control with their government representatives, and they got it; they wanted prohibition, and they got it. The simplicity of their method was remarkable; they told people exactly what they were going to do, and when elected, they did it.
In 1920, however, it all came to a startling halt. Republican Warren Harding was elected, and the nation-wide love-affair with the Progressives ended. But why so soon? Because they had crossed everything off of their list, and to the public, they no longer needed Progressives; they had run their course. This is why a political party must remain vague.
Now take another Presidential dynasty, this one consisting of a one-man force: Franklin Roosevelt. Just as the Progressive Party before him, he inspired the implementation of several Amendments; because of him, you can’t be elected for a third term, but you can drink, your term starts earlier in relation to Election Day, and you can be replaced if your cabinet decides that your brain can no longer function in a presidential manner. But as for his most cherished legacy, he won his first of four terms in 1932 when he proposed the mysterious cure-all to the Great Depression entitled the “New Deal.” In stark contrast to the winning methodology of the Progressives, he spent his campaign keeping all the details of the program to himself—if he even thought them out prior to his inauguration. With his plan, he eventually initiated enough “alphabet soup” programs to make Rollins proud, each intending to solve problems relating to unemployment, with the hopes of bringing the economy back to its feet. Even into his third term, however, the country was still experiencing the worst financial crisis in its history. In the end, it took World War II to pull America out of the mess it was in. Yet today, FDR is considered our most dime-worthy president, and the New Deal is referred to as a grand plan in action. Why is this? Because Roosevelt never told the country what it was going to be. What were they to expect? By electing not to tell people what the New Deal was, he ensured that he would not tie himself down with personally-imposed dates and deadlines. Perhaps that’s why he’s so revered.
Nowadays, “Progressive” is a bad word in politics. Despite the time of change they authored, they failed to exist for more than two decades, and thus failed in the context of being a political movement whose goal is to prolong its reign. But if longevity is considered the sole desire of political group, why would one truly want to succeed as such? Shouldn’t a group be more concerned with the effect it has on the country? The fact is, the Progressives were. And in those terms, they succeeded.
But what started this extraordinarily diligent and successful time in history? The answer is Wisconsin governor Robert LaFollet, who developed a plan to assemble University of Wisconsin students for the purpose of reporting on what the state was doing wrong. This initiated what Teddy Roosevelt termed “muckraking,” the type of journalism that exposed the corruption of politicians. Citizens weary of their elected officials’ unethical practices fueled its popularity, which Roosevelt eventually saw as an asset to him. He saw the power of the public, and sought to gain their favor by campaigning for what they truly wanted, and initiating what would be termed Progressive. Ultimately, this change was fueled by the people, who were sick of the corruption of the Gilded Age in the late 1800s. What will it take for Americans to initiate change again? Will people ever realize the privilege it is to live in a democracy that asks for the voice of the people?
Our two favorite parties have certainly learned from their “failed” friends. Never will they list their goals, lest they target themselves for termination at the completion of their tasks. This election season, listen for when a candidate does promise a specific result. Then, don’t be surprised when the candidate assures it will happen by 2013. Why would he do this, if his term would be over by then? Because even though he has yet to secure his first term as president, he’s already preparing his campaign for reelection. Sure, our country’s lone example of a straight-forward political movement garnered much success, but lest our current parties flounder, they must stay the course. Be brave. Be vague.
Let’s go back to the early 1900’s, when the political ideal in power was neither liberalism nor conservatism, but Progressivism. Both Republicans and Democrats were involved in the movement, for it was apolitical, with both parties operating toward the same widespread goals.
Following William McKinley’s death, Teddy Roosevelt assumed the Presidency in 1901. On a national level, he began the era that was ripe with what democracy is all about: a government that acts on the wishes of the voting majority. The Progressives held the presidency for five consecutive terms, and in that time they initiated the ratification of four Amendments. Without their proficiency, the public wouldn’t have nearly as much voice in politics. Thanks to them, we can not only vote on state-wide referendums, but we can petition to put our own on the ballot, we can elect our senators, we can recall our governor to elect Arnold Schwarzenegger, we can vote in presidential primaries, and we can allow women to take part in it all. It’s safe to say that their impact on American democracy was profound.
But how did they secure the country’s highest office for twenty years? Because from the beginning, Progressive candidates campaigned with their goals at the forefront, clearly stating them, so as to attract voters who wanted the changes they proposed. People at the time wanted more control with their government representatives, and they got it; they wanted prohibition, and they got it. The simplicity of their method was remarkable; they told people exactly what they were going to do, and when elected, they did it.
In 1920, however, it all came to a startling halt. Republican Warren Harding was elected, and the nation-wide love-affair with the Progressives ended. But why so soon? Because they had crossed everything off of their list, and to the public, they no longer needed Progressives; they had run their course. This is why a political party must remain vague.
Now take another Presidential dynasty, this one consisting of a one-man force: Franklin Roosevelt. Just as the Progressive Party before him, he inspired the implementation of several Amendments; because of him, you can’t be elected for a third term, but you can drink, your term starts earlier in relation to Election Day, and you can be replaced if your cabinet decides that your brain can no longer function in a presidential manner. But as for his most cherished legacy, he won his first of four terms in 1932 when he proposed the mysterious cure-all to the Great Depression entitled the “New Deal.” In stark contrast to the winning methodology of the Progressives, he spent his campaign keeping all the details of the program to himself—if he even thought them out prior to his inauguration. With his plan, he eventually initiated enough “alphabet soup” programs to make Rollins proud, each intending to solve problems relating to unemployment, with the hopes of bringing the economy back to its feet. Even into his third term, however, the country was still experiencing the worst financial crisis in its history. In the end, it took World War II to pull America out of the mess it was in. Yet today, FDR is considered our most dime-worthy president, and the New Deal is referred to as a grand plan in action. Why is this? Because Roosevelt never told the country what it was going to be. What were they to expect? By electing not to tell people what the New Deal was, he ensured that he would not tie himself down with personally-imposed dates and deadlines. Perhaps that’s why he’s so revered.
Nowadays, “Progressive” is a bad word in politics. Despite the time of change they authored, they failed to exist for more than two decades, and thus failed in the context of being a political movement whose goal is to prolong its reign. But if longevity is considered the sole desire of political group, why would one truly want to succeed as such? Shouldn’t a group be more concerned with the effect it has on the country? The fact is, the Progressives were. And in those terms, they succeeded.
But what started this extraordinarily diligent and successful time in history? The answer is Wisconsin governor Robert LaFollet, who developed a plan to assemble University of Wisconsin students for the purpose of reporting on what the state was doing wrong. This initiated what Teddy Roosevelt termed “muckraking,” the type of journalism that exposed the corruption of politicians. Citizens weary of their elected officials’ unethical practices fueled its popularity, which Roosevelt eventually saw as an asset to him. He saw the power of the public, and sought to gain their favor by campaigning for what they truly wanted, and initiating what would be termed Progressive. Ultimately, this change was fueled by the people, who were sick of the corruption of the Gilded Age in the late 1800s. What will it take for Americans to initiate change again? Will people ever realize the privilege it is to live in a democracy that asks for the voice of the people?
Our two favorite parties have certainly learned from their “failed” friends. Never will they list their goals, lest they target themselves for termination at the completion of their tasks. This election season, listen for when a candidate does promise a specific result. Then, don’t be surprised when the candidate assures it will happen by 2013. Why would he do this, if his term would be over by then? Because even though he has yet to secure his first term as president, he’s already preparing his campaign for reelection. Sure, our country’s lone example of a straight-forward political movement garnered much success, but lest our current parties flounder, they must stay the course. Be brave. Be vague.
Wabi-sabi
I believe in wabi-sabi. If you don’t already know, this is the latest craze from Asia that is sweeping the nation, and if origami and feng shui are any indication, this could really become big. But since wabi-sabi consists of neither paper folding nor furniture arranging, it does not strike the same core audience of sufferers of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and the bored. Rather, its aim is to please the philosophical, with whom it truly resonates. wabi-sabi is the concept that beauty can be found in what we perceive as imperfect, perhaps more often than where we consider perfection to lie.
To understand the meaning of this pair of words, one must first look at each individually. By their Japanese definitions, wabi means harmony, tranquility and peace, while sabi is the flow of time. Literally, it is the beautiful effect that time has on the world. wabi-sabi is a concept of appreciating what isn’t ideal in life, focusing not on what is pristine and manufactured, but rather on what is earthen and exemplary of natural beauty. wabi-sabi embraces the stained, the frayed; the signs of life, rather than that which is unmarked, unused, and, frankly, therefore unloved. This is already somewhat apparent in our society, as we are currently apt to purchase clothing that has the appearance of wear, when in fact, the jeans may have merely met a pair of scissors, or the hat, a cleansing wash amid stones. Wearing these items may be to impress, as they look as if they have survived a journey through mountainous wilderness, when they’re really just the result of a leisurely drive to the Gap.
Let’s apply wabi-sabi to an unloved aspect of getting older in this society, one that seems to be just as cringe-worthy as aging itself: wrinkles. It’s fair to say that most people that have them want to get rid of them, and they will try any new drug or procedure to smooth their face to a degree that defies physiology. When you realize where how these unwanted “blemishes” form, however, it gets you to think: why would you not want to show the world that you’ve laughed? Why would you hide that you’ve smiled, that you’ve squinted to see the world, or that you’ve shown concern for those that you care about? If Botox induced memory-loss, you wouldn’t trade the experiences that have defined your life for what you think is a superficial enhancement, would you?
The concepts communicated by wabi-sabi go hand in hand with other ways that we can view life, by which we can increase our appreciation of the world around us. Often we hear that people view their existence as a glass that is either half-full or half-empty, denoting whether they approach the world with an optimistic or pessimistic disposition. Regardless of whether you ascribe to either side, why not just be happy that you have a glass? You may think that your lifetime of experiences can be classified as either “good” or “bad,” but this life is of endless possibility, so why not appreciate it for what it is?
The “imperfections” of life can be loved just as well, and they can bolster appreciation for the root goodness that is associated with whatever “bad” thing is happening. Let’s say that your dog has fleas. It’s easy to imagine the frustrations that build from such a simple, common occurrence, but instead of lamenting the affliction, why not think: “I’m grateful to even have a dog. Many people would love to have such a companion but can’t due to money constraints or allergies. To keep its joy in my life, of course I’d be willing to give my dog a bath once in a while.” It’s opportunities like these that we can use to become either disenchanted or enlivened by life. The key to remember is that you have a choice.
Wabi-sabi does not have rules; you don’t have to hire someone to tell you if you’re doing it right, and you won’t be judged if yours doesn’t end up looking like a swan. Just take it with you, and when your tree begins to shed its leaves, when your cat sprouts a few gray hairs, or when the spot on your shoes won’t budge, think of it. If you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, let these reminders guide you to appreciating what you have while you still have it. When time shows you what true beauty is, wabi-sabi.
To understand the meaning of this pair of words, one must first look at each individually. By their Japanese definitions, wabi means harmony, tranquility and peace, while sabi is the flow of time. Literally, it is the beautiful effect that time has on the world. wabi-sabi is a concept of appreciating what isn’t ideal in life, focusing not on what is pristine and manufactured, but rather on what is earthen and exemplary of natural beauty. wabi-sabi embraces the stained, the frayed; the signs of life, rather than that which is unmarked, unused, and, frankly, therefore unloved. This is already somewhat apparent in our society, as we are currently apt to purchase clothing that has the appearance of wear, when in fact, the jeans may have merely met a pair of scissors, or the hat, a cleansing wash amid stones. Wearing these items may be to impress, as they look as if they have survived a journey through mountainous wilderness, when they’re really just the result of a leisurely drive to the Gap.
Let’s apply wabi-sabi to an unloved aspect of getting older in this society, one that seems to be just as cringe-worthy as aging itself: wrinkles. It’s fair to say that most people that have them want to get rid of them, and they will try any new drug or procedure to smooth their face to a degree that defies physiology. When you realize where how these unwanted “blemishes” form, however, it gets you to think: why would you not want to show the world that you’ve laughed? Why would you hide that you’ve smiled, that you’ve squinted to see the world, or that you’ve shown concern for those that you care about? If Botox induced memory-loss, you wouldn’t trade the experiences that have defined your life for what you think is a superficial enhancement, would you?
The concepts communicated by wabi-sabi go hand in hand with other ways that we can view life, by which we can increase our appreciation of the world around us. Often we hear that people view their existence as a glass that is either half-full or half-empty, denoting whether they approach the world with an optimistic or pessimistic disposition. Regardless of whether you ascribe to either side, why not just be happy that you have a glass? You may think that your lifetime of experiences can be classified as either “good” or “bad,” but this life is of endless possibility, so why not appreciate it for what it is?
The “imperfections” of life can be loved just as well, and they can bolster appreciation for the root goodness that is associated with whatever “bad” thing is happening. Let’s say that your dog has fleas. It’s easy to imagine the frustrations that build from such a simple, common occurrence, but instead of lamenting the affliction, why not think: “I’m grateful to even have a dog. Many people would love to have such a companion but can’t due to money constraints or allergies. To keep its joy in my life, of course I’d be willing to give my dog a bath once in a while.” It’s opportunities like these that we can use to become either disenchanted or enlivened by life. The key to remember is that you have a choice.
Wabi-sabi does not have rules; you don’t have to hire someone to tell you if you’re doing it right, and you won’t be judged if yours doesn’t end up looking like a swan. Just take it with you, and when your tree begins to shed its leaves, when your cat sprouts a few gray hairs, or when the spot on your shoes won’t budge, think of it. If you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, let these reminders guide you to appreciating what you have while you still have it. When time shows you what true beauty is, wabi-sabi.
Monday, October 13, 2008
New, Or Slightly Refurbished?
How can you reinvent yourself if you don’t yet have a complete “self” to reinvent? Without knowing how you act in unfamiliar situations (like the ones that college presents), what gives you the right to quantify unexpected responses as inconsistent with your personality? I feel that we don’t truly become developed people until we’ve met the challenges that arise in life; when we do, our personalities grow, and though they may appear to change, they are merely accommodating the deeper concepts we attain that our formerly naїve ideas can no longer exist among.
I always anticipated that my time in college would define me, and throughout grade school, I did little more than bide my time and wait for it to arrive. The problem was, I did very little more than bide my time. I avoided most schoolwork, creating the image of being incredibly lazy, all the while dreaming about how when I get to college, I would completely dedicate myself to my work. Late in my junior year, however, I stumbled upon the inherent fallacy to this plan: How would I get accepted into college when I was in no way acceptable? I then started to experiment with what doing work was like, earning straight-A’s in my senior year and glimpsing the vision of the horrible truth that it was easier to do the work than not do it. I completed the year and graduated, but despite this 4th-quarter comeback, the points didn’t add up to a win, for by then, the door was closed to even the well-known “safety school,” UCF.
I was distraught to make the decision to do what I considered “settling,” which was enrolling at Valencia. Really, though, it wasn’t a decision at all, because there was no alternative to going to a community college; I was not going to abandon my education. From the first day of classes, I came prepared with my intellect, for I knew that I didn’t know what to expect, and because of this, I needed to put forth my best effort to have any chance of succeeding. It was a challenge, and even more so, I enjoyed it. Before I knew it, each glimpse of free time was met with one thought: what can I do for school? All of my energy was focused toward success, and above all other outcomes, it was rewarding. Without ever consciously approaching it as a test of who I was, it validated the dreams I had of who I would become when college arrived.
At this time, I was even working twice a week, but the time spent at the golf course was no detraction to my efforts. Because of my tight schoolwork schedule, I never went to my job worried about my academic responsibilities. It was my time to focus my effort towards something else, all while breathing fresh air, enjoying the stable work, and letting thoughts drift in my mind.
Not only was school positively affecting my time at work, but even the subtleties of my personality were affected. A particular weekend visit by my grandparents seemed to crystallize what had become of me. From the time I answered the door, my grandmother noticed several subtle differences in my body language and demeanor. Based on how she knew I felt toward high school, she rightly surmised that I had finally “found my niche.” My grandfather, knowing how diligent I had become in my studies, asked me what I was doing for fun. I was surprised by the quickness with which the answer came to mind: “work.” “No, that’s for money,” he had replied, but I had given the answer and was convinced beyond doubt that it was right. School was satisfying and work was fun. What had happened to me?
It may be that I just wanted to become responsible. In high school, every missing homework assignment was met with a teacher’s ugly stare, whereas in college, the people we must face when making poor grades are ourselves. Similarly, we are no longer prodded into extracurricular activities; we can make our own choices regarding how involved or anonymous we want to be. In grade school, it was as if each assignment were simply for the teacher’s pleasure, which made nothing worth doing. Each paper fed them; they devoured the fruits of our wasted time to sustain their ravenous gluttony. Based on their disappointment when assignments weren’t turned in, this has to be true.
After escaping high school, I didn’t anchor myself with low expectations of what Valencia might offer, but rather, approached it with the thought that it was better than I. And I was right. Each of my professors exceeded what I could have ever imagined, especially after middle and high-school years peppered with teachers who were egocentric, self-absorbed, or in some cases, conceited. Thinking back on my English teachers alone, they could more than inspire a book entitled The Six People You Meet in Hell that Teach English. It’s a wonder I’ve decided to study the language as my major, much less continue speaking it. I had always maintained hope that they would be fired, but somehow, each remained as flame retardant as the last.
The “life-changing” experience that college provides may not truly inspire a change at all, but rather, a creation, allowing young people to find what their responses are when faced with unfamiliar choices and challenges. For me, college was (and is) a revelation; the freedom it allows was just what I needed to ignite my motivation and become who I always imagined I could be. Valencia gave me the chance to become my own person on my own terms, and I accepted it. It also allowed me the qualifications to come to Rollins, where I couldn’t have been accepted before without the donation of a new lake.
I always anticipated that my time in college would define me, and throughout grade school, I did little more than bide my time and wait for it to arrive. The problem was, I did very little more than bide my time. I avoided most schoolwork, creating the image of being incredibly lazy, all the while dreaming about how when I get to college, I would completely dedicate myself to my work. Late in my junior year, however, I stumbled upon the inherent fallacy to this plan: How would I get accepted into college when I was in no way acceptable? I then started to experiment with what doing work was like, earning straight-A’s in my senior year and glimpsing the vision of the horrible truth that it was easier to do the work than not do it. I completed the year and graduated, but despite this 4th-quarter comeback, the points didn’t add up to a win, for by then, the door was closed to even the well-known “safety school,” UCF.
I was distraught to make the decision to do what I considered “settling,” which was enrolling at Valencia. Really, though, it wasn’t a decision at all, because there was no alternative to going to a community college; I was not going to abandon my education. From the first day of classes, I came prepared with my intellect, for I knew that I didn’t know what to expect, and because of this, I needed to put forth my best effort to have any chance of succeeding. It was a challenge, and even more so, I enjoyed it. Before I knew it, each glimpse of free time was met with one thought: what can I do for school? All of my energy was focused toward success, and above all other outcomes, it was rewarding. Without ever consciously approaching it as a test of who I was, it validated the dreams I had of who I would become when college arrived.
At this time, I was even working twice a week, but the time spent at the golf course was no detraction to my efforts. Because of my tight schoolwork schedule, I never went to my job worried about my academic responsibilities. It was my time to focus my effort towards something else, all while breathing fresh air, enjoying the stable work, and letting thoughts drift in my mind.
Not only was school positively affecting my time at work, but even the subtleties of my personality were affected. A particular weekend visit by my grandparents seemed to crystallize what had become of me. From the time I answered the door, my grandmother noticed several subtle differences in my body language and demeanor. Based on how she knew I felt toward high school, she rightly surmised that I had finally “found my niche.” My grandfather, knowing how diligent I had become in my studies, asked me what I was doing for fun. I was surprised by the quickness with which the answer came to mind: “work.” “No, that’s for money,” he had replied, but I had given the answer and was convinced beyond doubt that it was right. School was satisfying and work was fun. What had happened to me?
It may be that I just wanted to become responsible. In high school, every missing homework assignment was met with a teacher’s ugly stare, whereas in college, the people we must face when making poor grades are ourselves. Similarly, we are no longer prodded into extracurricular activities; we can make our own choices regarding how involved or anonymous we want to be. In grade school, it was as if each assignment were simply for the teacher’s pleasure, which made nothing worth doing. Each paper fed them; they devoured the fruits of our wasted time to sustain their ravenous gluttony. Based on their disappointment when assignments weren’t turned in, this has to be true.
After escaping high school, I didn’t anchor myself with low expectations of what Valencia might offer, but rather, approached it with the thought that it was better than I. And I was right. Each of my professors exceeded what I could have ever imagined, especially after middle and high-school years peppered with teachers who were egocentric, self-absorbed, or in some cases, conceited. Thinking back on my English teachers alone, they could more than inspire a book entitled The Six People You Meet in Hell that Teach English. It’s a wonder I’ve decided to study the language as my major, much less continue speaking it. I had always maintained hope that they would be fired, but somehow, each remained as flame retardant as the last.
The “life-changing” experience that college provides may not truly inspire a change at all, but rather, a creation, allowing young people to find what their responses are when faced with unfamiliar choices and challenges. For me, college was (and is) a revelation; the freedom it allows was just what I needed to ignite my motivation and become who I always imagined I could be. Valencia gave me the chance to become my own person on my own terms, and I accepted it. It also allowed me the qualifications to come to Rollins, where I couldn’t have been accepted before without the donation of a new lake.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Part-Time of My Life
I adorn my head with a weathered visor, worn to a dull green after four years of sweat and sunshine. My dogs wait by the door, doe-eyed as they watch me place my thermos on the ground and sit to tie my shoes. They know it will be nightfall when I return, for Winter Pines is calling, and just as only you can prevent forest fires, only I can wash the dirt and glass clumps out of the wheel wells of golf carts.
The sun is always shining as I walk outside, with pure white clouds dotting an even purer blue sky. As I venture out onto the sidewalk, however, my gaze turns to the golf course, where dense black clouds perpetually hover, billowing and unfurling their reaches across the length of the course. While this is actually a good sign, because golfers will flee when spritzed with a drop of rain (which allows me leave early), for the purpose of this essay, the foreboding weather represents the disdain I feel toward my part-time job: cleaning up after golfers.
This occupation is marred by a multitude of misconceptions, beginning with golfers’ confusion as to whether or not we are a grocery store. For the record, we are not, so it is not ok to leave your cart in the parking lot. While this is wholly unacceptable, it is understandable, for a very low percentage of these carts are without traces of alcohol. Few carts overall are missing this key ingredient to a fun day on the course, which is why when people ask me if I play golf, I say, “No, I’m underage.” Golfers understand, though others often show puzzlement. I get similar looks when asking girls to go on the course with me. It’s as if there’s something wrong with asking someone if they want to “play a round.” After such an exchange, the girl in question often opts to just hit balls instead. Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with golf.
The propensity of golfers to drink has other implications on the course as well. For one thing, it makes can collecting a fairly reasonable prospect, for the purpose of selling them to a recycling plant—that is, until you realize that more than one can is needed to earn a single cent. In spite of this upfront detraction, our 73-year-old ranger Ralph has been collecting them for the past 15 years. He scours the receptacles that are scattered around the course, collecting his exchangeable goods with the dream of amassing enough to purchase a new truck. After hunting and gathering illustrious aluminum for so many long and rusty years, I’m happy to say that he can now afford any truck in the 2009 Tonka lineup.
Some of the biggest contributors to the recycling plant are a group of regulars at the course, whose idea of a perfect Saturday is playing 18 holes in the morning, then sitting around in the afternoon trying to forget it. They are undoubtedly the inspiration for my favorite saying: “You can lead a golfer to the course, but you can’t make him not drink.”
They and other golfers’ prolific beverage consumption often cause them to forget about the remaining contents of their cans when they leave. While their livers thank them for such mishaps, I do not. This is because Ralph dumps the beer into the nearest trash-bag, where it re-ferments, this time not with beechwood, but with stale hotdog buns and cigarette butts. This amalgam generates the most foul, pungent smell on the entire course (if you ignore the mass unearthing of fertilizer that happens when it rains). We eventually deposit each of these soggy sacks of trash in a dumpster at the end of the parking lot, where they truly age to perfection. Not only do the residents of neighboring homes complain when we leave the top off of this rectangular cesspool, but the consuming stench even has garbage men holding their noses when they come to collect it.
Worst of all, I put myself in this situation. I should’ve known not to take this job, for I live with a golfer, and have been able to study his behavior carefully. Early in his time in college I helped him move out of his apartment, and in the throes of packing, a quick perusal of his bedroom closet revealed several empty cans of ill repute. “JEFF!” I had yelled, confronting him on his unacceptable habit, “You don’t recycle?!”
The sun is always shining as I walk outside, with pure white clouds dotting an even purer blue sky. As I venture out onto the sidewalk, however, my gaze turns to the golf course, where dense black clouds perpetually hover, billowing and unfurling their reaches across the length of the course. While this is actually a good sign, because golfers will flee when spritzed with a drop of rain (which allows me leave early), for the purpose of this essay, the foreboding weather represents the disdain I feel toward my part-time job: cleaning up after golfers.
This occupation is marred by a multitude of misconceptions, beginning with golfers’ confusion as to whether or not we are a grocery store. For the record, we are not, so it is not ok to leave your cart in the parking lot. While this is wholly unacceptable, it is understandable, for a very low percentage of these carts are without traces of alcohol. Few carts overall are missing this key ingredient to a fun day on the course, which is why when people ask me if I play golf, I say, “No, I’m underage.” Golfers understand, though others often show puzzlement. I get similar looks when asking girls to go on the course with me. It’s as if there’s something wrong with asking someone if they want to “play a round.” After such an exchange, the girl in question often opts to just hit balls instead. Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with golf.
The propensity of golfers to drink has other implications on the course as well. For one thing, it makes can collecting a fairly reasonable prospect, for the purpose of selling them to a recycling plant—that is, until you realize that more than one can is needed to earn a single cent. In spite of this upfront detraction, our 73-year-old ranger Ralph has been collecting them for the past 15 years. He scours the receptacles that are scattered around the course, collecting his exchangeable goods with the dream of amassing enough to purchase a new truck. After hunting and gathering illustrious aluminum for so many long and rusty years, I’m happy to say that he can now afford any truck in the 2009 Tonka lineup.
Some of the biggest contributors to the recycling plant are a group of regulars at the course, whose idea of a perfect Saturday is playing 18 holes in the morning, then sitting around in the afternoon trying to forget it. They are undoubtedly the inspiration for my favorite saying: “You can lead a golfer to the course, but you can’t make him not drink.”
They and other golfers’ prolific beverage consumption often cause them to forget about the remaining contents of their cans when they leave. While their livers thank them for such mishaps, I do not. This is because Ralph dumps the beer into the nearest trash-bag, where it re-ferments, this time not with beechwood, but with stale hotdog buns and cigarette butts. This amalgam generates the most foul, pungent smell on the entire course (if you ignore the mass unearthing of fertilizer that happens when it rains). We eventually deposit each of these soggy sacks of trash in a dumpster at the end of the parking lot, where they truly age to perfection. Not only do the residents of neighboring homes complain when we leave the top off of this rectangular cesspool, but the consuming stench even has garbage men holding their noses when they come to collect it.
Worst of all, I put myself in this situation. I should’ve known not to take this job, for I live with a golfer, and have been able to study his behavior carefully. Early in his time in college I helped him move out of his apartment, and in the throes of packing, a quick perusal of his bedroom closet revealed several empty cans of ill repute. “JEFF!” I had yelled, confronting him on his unacceptable habit, “You don’t recycle?!”
To Improve Life
A non-religious person might assume that to those who are affiliated with an organized faith, nothing is more important than their belief in a God or deities. While this is certainly an essential part, it is the good work that God inspires in people that truly matters: a person’s dedication to others is the true measure of the strength of his or her faith. Those who choose not to embrace spirituality in their lives may deprive themselves from this important ideal to live by, that all humans are equals on this earth, and that by caring for one another as such, we may be truly happy.
Together, and only together, we can combine our efforts to improve life on earth, and the first step is to promote kinship with those who live as we do. By this, I don’t mean people who share the same heritage, or act as we do, but everyone: humans. If we were to treat others in the same way that we would treat our family, our friends, and ourselves, we would all realize how easy it is to be good to all people, and how simple it is to appreciate all human life.
John Lennon’s song “Imagine” is celebrated as a secular example of this ideal, though its concepts do not stand steadfast when questioned. The song begins with Lennon’s preliminary address: “Imagine there’s no Heaven/It’s easy if you try/No hell below us/Above us only sky.” He means that if our lives on earth are all that we have, we would see the inherent value of our time here, and would all learn to live together. However, it’s my opinion that the masses would not act this way in this situation, but would rather be even more self-centered than they are currently. The majority of people would feel that since their entire existence is as short as it is, they wouldn’t let anyone stand in their way from enjoying life in their own way. Consider this frame of mind, and then step back for a moment. If this were reality, wouldn’t we wish for the presence of a God to bring meaning to our lives? Wouldn’t we want there to be a Heaven for us to aspire to, so that those that are selfish would be selfish in doing acts of good, in the name of the Lord?
As Lennon continues, “Imagine all the people/Living for today” (Lennon). I feel that that is precisely the problem; people will be overly concerned with the brevity of their lives, and will focus entirely on short-term pleasures. Later in the song, he suggests that peace may be found another way: “Imagine there’s no countries [. . .] And no religion too (Lennon).” Simply put, he envisioned a world without any reason for division. Despite the war and destruction that religious conflicts have caused, though, I believe that the hope, goodness, and strength attributed to faith on this earth have made a much greater impact.
Through the lens of religion or not, we must all see that as humans on this earth, we are all brothers and sisters. We have the strength to overcome various obstacles in our lives, and can overlook certain problems; we need to use these abilities to see past the insignificant differences that we each have, which we have mistakenly ingrained in ourselves as being important. Chiefly, we must embrace our capability to accept, to understand, and to forgive. If we all dedicate ourselves to each other, being generous with our time on this earth, sharing the talents we are blessed with, and giving the treasure that we possess, life will improve. We need to distance ourselves with material things that we perceive as being important, for when we do so to improve the life of another human being, it is undoubtedly worthwhile. When we are able to give to others, we are truly blessed.
Our lives are full of choices, yet so many of our decisions are insignificant. Were we to dedicate a mere fraction of our ability to giving to others, we would all live in a much better place. Some have opinions about what needs to change for such goodness to take place, but I feel that this power is already inside of us, waiting for us to reach it with the help of our God. We must see ourselves in each other, choosing to help those in need as if we were reaching out to a loved one. If we were born into a horrible situation, as so many people in the world experience, wouldn’t we yearn to be helped? Wouldn’t we grasp for hope as if scrambling for the few morsels of food on our plate, unsure of when the next portion will come? Imagine that our lives are judged, and that being selfless and generous is not just the key to living a fulfilling life, but that it will lead our Lord and Creator to grant us an everlasting life with Him. I can.
Together, and only together, we can combine our efforts to improve life on earth, and the first step is to promote kinship with those who live as we do. By this, I don’t mean people who share the same heritage, or act as we do, but everyone: humans. If we were to treat others in the same way that we would treat our family, our friends, and ourselves, we would all realize how easy it is to be good to all people, and how simple it is to appreciate all human life.
John Lennon’s song “Imagine” is celebrated as a secular example of this ideal, though its concepts do not stand steadfast when questioned. The song begins with Lennon’s preliminary address: “Imagine there’s no Heaven/It’s easy if you try/No hell below us/Above us only sky.” He means that if our lives on earth are all that we have, we would see the inherent value of our time here, and would all learn to live together. However, it’s my opinion that the masses would not act this way in this situation, but would rather be even more self-centered than they are currently. The majority of people would feel that since their entire existence is as short as it is, they wouldn’t let anyone stand in their way from enjoying life in their own way. Consider this frame of mind, and then step back for a moment. If this were reality, wouldn’t we wish for the presence of a God to bring meaning to our lives? Wouldn’t we want there to be a Heaven for us to aspire to, so that those that are selfish would be selfish in doing acts of good, in the name of the Lord?
As Lennon continues, “Imagine all the people/Living for today” (Lennon). I feel that that is precisely the problem; people will be overly concerned with the brevity of their lives, and will focus entirely on short-term pleasures. Later in the song, he suggests that peace may be found another way: “Imagine there’s no countries [. . .] And no religion too (Lennon).” Simply put, he envisioned a world without any reason for division. Despite the war and destruction that religious conflicts have caused, though, I believe that the hope, goodness, and strength attributed to faith on this earth have made a much greater impact.
Through the lens of religion or not, we must all see that as humans on this earth, we are all brothers and sisters. We have the strength to overcome various obstacles in our lives, and can overlook certain problems; we need to use these abilities to see past the insignificant differences that we each have, which we have mistakenly ingrained in ourselves as being important. Chiefly, we must embrace our capability to accept, to understand, and to forgive. If we all dedicate ourselves to each other, being generous with our time on this earth, sharing the talents we are blessed with, and giving the treasure that we possess, life will improve. We need to distance ourselves with material things that we perceive as being important, for when we do so to improve the life of another human being, it is undoubtedly worthwhile. When we are able to give to others, we are truly blessed.
Our lives are full of choices, yet so many of our decisions are insignificant. Were we to dedicate a mere fraction of our ability to giving to others, we would all live in a much better place. Some have opinions about what needs to change for such goodness to take place, but I feel that this power is already inside of us, waiting for us to reach it with the help of our God. We must see ourselves in each other, choosing to help those in need as if we were reaching out to a loved one. If we were born into a horrible situation, as so many people in the world experience, wouldn’t we yearn to be helped? Wouldn’t we grasp for hope as if scrambling for the few morsels of food on our plate, unsure of when the next portion will come? Imagine that our lives are judged, and that being selfless and generous is not just the key to living a fulfilling life, but that it will lead our Lord and Creator to grant us an everlasting life with Him. I can.
An Entire Team of Me
Every morning they knock the dirt from their grass-stained cleats. The sun hangs low in the sky, draping shadows across the field as the men march to the center of the chalk-lined turf. Their socks moisten as they track through the dew-laden grass, each untouched blade glistening with light. The shrill sound of a whistle pierces the air, getting all to line up for stretches and drills, to awaken muscles that lay sleeping the previous night. This is what goes on inside me, for I am a football team. I may not offer the appearance of a single player, much less an entire squad, but it’s true. At any given time I am one of them; which one, however, all depends on whether life finds me on offense or defense. When the ball is in my control, I can be confident, the traveler, the comedian, or the writer; when I’m under attack, I can be worrisome, the sugar-coater, the introvert, or even the writer again, because he can really be both.
My inner traveler insists I explore the world’s grandeur at every opportunity. He is bold and trusting, which is necessary, for he lacks understanding of foreign languages. He’s the one that convinces me I must go overseas during spring break, rather than spend it at home, and that I should shun the Burger Kings of France and instead let seasoned snails slither down my throat. That instance was kind of a shame, though, that I didn’t eat at my first choice of place; I was really set on trying a Junior Louis XIV. The traveler seeks to experience the romanticism of traversing unexplored land, of unfurling weathered maps on the earthen floor of a tent. He wants to hold down the edges with a rusted lantern that protects a flickering flame, reading pages by the soft glow. With modern travel, however, he also enjoys the sight of boundless hills that appear through a thick airplane window, beyond the misty guise of clouds as he makes a skyward approach.
The introvert has few words for others, as he prefers to remain in the backdrop of the world as much as he can. His personal credo is that it is better to not speak and be presumed dumb than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt. These tendencies were learned with the help of my brother, who, when growing up, would have either a snide remark or dirty look to most everything I’d say. While his nastiness has diminished, my words are still closely managed, so as to prevent something regrettable from slipping through my lips.
The sugar-coater doesn’t want to make anyone angry, so what he will often do—as the name suggests—is offer news that is slightly misinterpreted to favor whomever he’s telling it to. This is to prevent any immediate backlash, and is usually in regards to his estimated time of arrival by car. This backfires when the person gets upset about being ready significantly earlier than when he actually gets there.
My worrisome self is overly cautious. He is unpleasant to be around, for he is always concerned with others’ interpretation of him. In order to manage this, he considers what others might think of him and his actions to too great an extent, making him stay quiet; this keeps him from being an acceptable person anyway. He worries, debates himself over useless matters, and wastes entirely too much time to doing so. Often times, he over-thinks a particularly bad fumble or interception in life, trying to make sense of what went wrong. This only makes things worse. If nothing else, he needs to learn that it’s infinitely better to move on than to dwell on negativity.
The confident part of me is who I wish would remain dominant. He is aware that the world is here for us to be good to one another, and that when we are all sharing with one another our time on earth, the talents that God has given us, and the treasure that we have, all will be well. He knows that we must get what we can from our lives, appreciating them, for we never know when they may dramatically change or end. Full of generosity, kindness, and love for all people, he understands that we are in control of our own happiness, and that it is up to ourselves to create meaning in our lives. Unfortunately, he isn’t demanding enough to take control of my body full-time. It’s just his personality.
The comedian will go to any length to conjure his art for others. I like to phrase it like that, because it’s usually just a thinly veiled method of being insulting. The comedian knows that to craft the perfect bit of humor requires wit, intelligence, and a disregard for common taste. He has a physiological need to turn everything into a joke, so few words will pass through his ears without a response, whether his comments are funny to more or less than one person. As enjoyable as he may be to some, to others, he can easily be the most aggravating.
The writer is the most fluidly adaptable of all, in that he may embody the feelings associated with any personality. Utilizing the experiences of each one, he dissects and deciphers what is usable to him. He is the one most in tune with words, though since he prefers isolation, he speaks through his fingers more than his mouth. He enjoys turning a good phrase, creating vivid descriptions, and capturing emotion and feeling on the page.
In time, the players tire, and regardless of the score, they all trudge off the field together. Under illuminating towers of light, the men move on, while patches of dirt and upturned grass flash in and out of their shadows. They arrive at their lockers and untie their cleats, some with bandaged fingers, and others with bound wrists. The players will ache as they lie in bed, but in the morning they’ll be back, ready to overcome a new day’s challenges. This mental game inside me can quite often be a physical one.
My inner traveler insists I explore the world’s grandeur at every opportunity. He is bold and trusting, which is necessary, for he lacks understanding of foreign languages. He’s the one that convinces me I must go overseas during spring break, rather than spend it at home, and that I should shun the Burger Kings of France and instead let seasoned snails slither down my throat. That instance was kind of a shame, though, that I didn’t eat at my first choice of place; I was really set on trying a Junior Louis XIV. The traveler seeks to experience the romanticism of traversing unexplored land, of unfurling weathered maps on the earthen floor of a tent. He wants to hold down the edges with a rusted lantern that protects a flickering flame, reading pages by the soft glow. With modern travel, however, he also enjoys the sight of boundless hills that appear through a thick airplane window, beyond the misty guise of clouds as he makes a skyward approach.
The introvert has few words for others, as he prefers to remain in the backdrop of the world as much as he can. His personal credo is that it is better to not speak and be presumed dumb than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt. These tendencies were learned with the help of my brother, who, when growing up, would have either a snide remark or dirty look to most everything I’d say. While his nastiness has diminished, my words are still closely managed, so as to prevent something regrettable from slipping through my lips.
The sugar-coater doesn’t want to make anyone angry, so what he will often do—as the name suggests—is offer news that is slightly misinterpreted to favor whomever he’s telling it to. This is to prevent any immediate backlash, and is usually in regards to his estimated time of arrival by car. This backfires when the person gets upset about being ready significantly earlier than when he actually gets there.
My worrisome self is overly cautious. He is unpleasant to be around, for he is always concerned with others’ interpretation of him. In order to manage this, he considers what others might think of him and his actions to too great an extent, making him stay quiet; this keeps him from being an acceptable person anyway. He worries, debates himself over useless matters, and wastes entirely too much time to doing so. Often times, he over-thinks a particularly bad fumble or interception in life, trying to make sense of what went wrong. This only makes things worse. If nothing else, he needs to learn that it’s infinitely better to move on than to dwell on negativity.
The confident part of me is who I wish would remain dominant. He is aware that the world is here for us to be good to one another, and that when we are all sharing with one another our time on earth, the talents that God has given us, and the treasure that we have, all will be well. He knows that we must get what we can from our lives, appreciating them, for we never know when they may dramatically change or end. Full of generosity, kindness, and love for all people, he understands that we are in control of our own happiness, and that it is up to ourselves to create meaning in our lives. Unfortunately, he isn’t demanding enough to take control of my body full-time. It’s just his personality.
The comedian will go to any length to conjure his art for others. I like to phrase it like that, because it’s usually just a thinly veiled method of being insulting. The comedian knows that to craft the perfect bit of humor requires wit, intelligence, and a disregard for common taste. He has a physiological need to turn everything into a joke, so few words will pass through his ears without a response, whether his comments are funny to more or less than one person. As enjoyable as he may be to some, to others, he can easily be the most aggravating.
The writer is the most fluidly adaptable of all, in that he may embody the feelings associated with any personality. Utilizing the experiences of each one, he dissects and deciphers what is usable to him. He is the one most in tune with words, though since he prefers isolation, he speaks through his fingers more than his mouth. He enjoys turning a good phrase, creating vivid descriptions, and capturing emotion and feeling on the page.
In time, the players tire, and regardless of the score, they all trudge off the field together. Under illuminating towers of light, the men move on, while patches of dirt and upturned grass flash in and out of their shadows. They arrive at their lockers and untie their cleats, some with bandaged fingers, and others with bound wrists. The players will ache as they lie in bed, but in the morning they’ll be back, ready to overcome a new day’s challenges. This mental game inside me can quite often be a physical one.
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