A New Litmus Test For Friendship
I hate buying presents.
No that’s not true. I really like buying presents if I know what I’m getting everyone. Then it is a hunt, a chase, to find the exact item at the best price. Sometimes price doesn’t matter: if I have the perfect gift, it will make my loved one feel all warm and squishy inside, and it won’t be gas.
However I come to realize that these gift giving times can define our relationships with others. I don’t mean “define” as is taking it to the next level, showing her/him how much he/she means to you, or anything so trite. When they haven’t asked for something specific, and you actually care about getting them something that they will enjoy, not just something you enjoy buying for them, you are faced with a defining moment: These times can and I fear do serve, as the troll on a bridge demanding the payment of answers to his twisted riddles. His question: How well do you know him/her?
Beyond their interests and hobbies, their supposed likes and dislikes, what do you really know? Can you, without prompting, buy something they will like, not because you bought it, but because it resonates within who they are?
I know I can walk into a store and in five minutes pick out something I know E would appreciate, enjoy, fall over laughing about, or get all “guys don’t show their emotions” over, and he could do the same for me: we know each other. I could do the same for most of my family, and many other close friends.
But there are others whom I love, who I would give my life for, who I am not sure I could buy a completely selfless present for if I tried. Does this mean I love them less than I should, or just know them less than I wish?
What does one do about this?
37 more shopping days until Christmas . . .
Site Changes And Profundity
They are still coming, and still happening. I just don’t post about all of them. Surf around.
As for something profound:
In Sophocles work Antigone the title character breaks the laws of men to uphold the law of the gods. She is looked at as a brave, noble, and caring individual throughout history because of this action. Teachers of all sorts hold her up as an example of feminism, heroism, and other ideological wonderments, yet . . .
The basic premise is she listened to her heart, claiming her love of her brother and the gods prompted her actions, thus this higher law supercedes the laws of man.
How well would this work today, in a land which claims that a man is pious and upright if he prays to God, but crazy if God answers back?
Cringe at the cognitive dissonance: an icon of education and society who is such by rebelling against our current soical norms.
What Else Is There?
. . . O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved as to love. . .
~ Saint Francis of Assisi
Lessons From A Leaf
l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness
~ e.e. cummings
I’ll let that sit for a moment.
Recently, in a 2 Corinthians chapter 1 sort of way, I have had the same conversation with numerous people, including my students after reading this poem. The difference between solitude and loneliness just keeps popping up, in random interactions.
They are kissing cousins in so many ways, but the subtle differences in their genetics are the words which go unspoken at the dinner table: the blessing and the bastard onl told apart by a semi-hidden birthmark, just above the heart.
We all need space: time to get away from everything and everyone. To turn off the recriminations of the world around us, and find a contentment in self: a joy “peaced” together by gathering our thoughts, reading a book, listening to music, driving the car, writing a note, or washing the dishes without distraction or distress. This is solitude: when we are alone and we like it. We request it. We might even get on our knees and pray to all that we hold dear for five uninterrupted moments of it.
But there are other times, when we are alone, when our hearts crave others; a time when it is too quiet, when we can hear with painful clarity the emptiness we are subject to. When the void begins to look back through us. When “a leaf falls” from the tree: disconnected, fearful, and tumbling. This is loneliness.
Mr. cummings captures it well.
The trick, practicing the former and rebuking the latter. Maybe this is at the heart of trading “beauty for ashes” and “strength for fear.” Maybe there is something to constantly being connected to something else, even in solitude. Maybe it’s not about being with others.
A single leaf, on an otherwise barren tree, is still alive.
Perception Is Not Reality. . .
The glass sitting on the table is there regardless of whether you like it or not. I can see it. My dog can see it. The blind kid down the street picked it up yesterday. My sister argues that it’s half full, while my brother says it’s half empty; personally I would like a cheeseburger, but the glass is there.
You might not like that one bit. But it’s still there.
It’s a part of objective reality: it can be sensed and expereinced by more than one person. It’s public and shared. It’s real. You can think what you want, but it’s still there: we can all see it, why can’t you? We all aren’t hallucinating, because that is a subjective experince: it’s private, and unable to be shared (It’s all in my head, and my head alone. We can’t all hallucinate together: regardless of what your parents told you about the 60s. It defies the definition of the word).
The cup is there. We all see it. Are you feeling well?
So then what should you do? We are all aware of the cup, our friends see it, the dog licked the rim, the blind boy is learning to spell c-u-p in braille. But you’re alone, not seeing it. You say you can’t be forced into seeing it, or feeling it, or loving it. And then question if it even matters; so what if I can’t see the cup? Must not be all that important anyway . . . if it is even real . . .
But it is real. The cup is there. But you’re missing it.