Balanced Diet
I haven't really posted recently. Part of this is because my life has become a hurdy-gurdy carnival ride of sorts. I find myself sometimes feeling rushed, like there isn't enough time in the day. Sometimes, I think, I ought to simplify.
There have been some dramatic emotional ups and downs recently. There is one very big up in my life, which is my relationship with Kristin. I could try to write poems about it; in fact, I have. But in journaling about it, in the prose of the diary form, elaboration would be obfuscation. I told my actors something tonite that sort of spontaneously erupted from within me. It was this - "simplicity is honesty." True in theatre, true in life. Emotions are complex, and I don't wish to deny that. What I'm talking about is how we express them. Giant, vaulting cathedral arches, in words or concrete, all hint at the nature of the divine, but the effortless ease of the landscape tells me so much more. And so I cannot find the words to exactly say how I feel because my words, my little treasured baubles, have not the brilliant radiance.
Questions of guilt and shame and blame have risen around me recently. These emotions, born of society, I view as tools. They should only be felt when there is a social lesson to be learned. I feel no guilt because there is no lesson to be learned. I feel no shame because I am no thief in the night. I take no blame because I did not accept anything that was not freely given. Pete Townshend, pop music's resident poet-warrior, wrote "I don't need to fight/to prove I'm right/I don't need to be forgiven." I refuse to be costumed as a villain. I am neither a hero nor a villain. I am human, no more and no less. Of course, what a great and noble thing it is to be a human being, when so many forces try to mold you to be their machine.
Speaking of machines, I have a new job. But breaking from the machine mold, the job is at the Sappington Garden Shop. Perhaps this seems like a strange place for me to be. It certainly seemed an odd choice of locale to me. After all, I don't know all that much about plants or soil or fertilizer. I got the job through two relatives of mine who work there, which is my connection. What I have found, however, is that the Garden Shop is exactly where I ought to be. In a tumultuous time in my life, which it certainly is, I'm discovering that working in such a place helps me keep my balance. I worked earlier tonite from 4 until 7, and it was an elixir for my soul. We're not very busy at this time of year (won't be until the Christmas trees start arriving), so few customers came onto the grounds. Instead, I worked in the concrete valley of the shop. The design shields the shop from the rattle of the intersection of Gravois and Sappington, and means that when you look up you are surrounded by sky. The sunset was beautiful today, and it felt good to arrange the potted plants into interesting patterns in the hopes of selling them before winter smothers them with cold.
Planted in the ground, they will survive. Left unsold in pots, they will not make it. I see a metaphor in this. The pots are very comfortable - we fill them with very rich soil, we water them, we can move them when the weather is bad so that they are protected from the storm. But left in their pots, they never grow very big, and when the winter comes they fade away. Planted in the ground, things are less certain. There might be burrowing bugs, the soil might not be as good, the water less regular. However, the only way a tree will grow to its full majesty is to be taken out of the pot and into the ground. The only way it will survive the hard, cold winter is, ironically, to be removed from its shelter. I wonder how deep my roots go in my own little pot, and I realize that soon, for my own good, I must uproot myself and plant myself into this world if I ever hope to bear fruit.
In a world that can be so hectic, I find myself looking for a way to keep myself from feeling lost amidst it all. I read the Tao te Ching when I was a sophomore, and it spoke to me then. However, I decided I was too busy for the legitimate meditation I needed to decide if this was something I could believe in. A few years later, I am drawn back to the book. It is a little more than 5,000 words, and it is highly metaphorical. Sometimes even tortuous in how obscure it can be. This annoys many people, but I find myself further drawn in. The problem is not that Lao-zi is unclear. The problem is that I am so mucked up with the detritus of life that I cannot perceive the fullness of his clarity. The Garden Shop helps me feel the tao of things, which is why I am enjoying it. In fact, through the hubbub, I attempt to allow myself to let go and follow the tao. When I have, I find that my problems no longer seem overwhelming. They are like rocks in a stream. If I am tense and solid, I will get hung up on them. If I am relaxed, if I allow myself to become like the water, I will effortlessly flow over them, wearing them away over time. It is written that "The tao that can be spoken of is not the true tao," and that "the one who doesn't know the tao speaks of it. The one who knows of the tao doesn't speak of it." I give you no missionary message, no advice. I won't try to explain it. But I felt it worth reflecting upon, and like my relationships, I have nothing to be ashamed of in terms of my spirituality. Some might scorn or deride it, but I don't care because I can feel that it is true.
Sometimes I question what to write in this journal. Considerations of personal revelation occur to me: how much? What to hold back? In what style should it be written? Will my revealing this make those who read this uncomfortable? I don't know the one and true answer to that question. I suppose it's on a case by case basis. I also realize that I am writing to an audience, albeit a very small one who, for the most part, know me personally. I question, do you care?
My answer is this: I will write what comes to mind, keeping in mind these factors. I have no way of knowing if what I write will spark interest, or be skimmed and scrolled. I am leaving footprints in the ether, so that I can revisit this place and time again, if I am so disposed. In the present, I suppose it is a sort of meditation, a reflection not only the facts of my days, but on how I feel about them and how they affect me. It is said, "to thine own self, be true." The only way to know if you're being true is to know yourself. In summation, I hope you get something out of my journal. If not, it does me a helpful service, which is why I have written in this journal for 19 long months. Because it helps me find my way, it is the longest self-imposed project onto which I have managed to hold.
There have been some dramatic emotional ups and downs recently. There is one very big up in my life, which is my relationship with Kristin. I could try to write poems about it; in fact, I have. But in journaling about it, in the prose of the diary form, elaboration would be obfuscation. I told my actors something tonite that sort of spontaneously erupted from within me. It was this - "simplicity is honesty." True in theatre, true in life. Emotions are complex, and I don't wish to deny that. What I'm talking about is how we express them. Giant, vaulting cathedral arches, in words or concrete, all hint at the nature of the divine, but the effortless ease of the landscape tells me so much more. And so I cannot find the words to exactly say how I feel because my words, my little treasured baubles, have not the brilliant radiance.
Questions of guilt and shame and blame have risen around me recently. These emotions, born of society, I view as tools. They should only be felt when there is a social lesson to be learned. I feel no guilt because there is no lesson to be learned. I feel no shame because I am no thief in the night. I take no blame because I did not accept anything that was not freely given. Pete Townshend, pop music's resident poet-warrior, wrote "I don't need to fight/to prove I'm right/I don't need to be forgiven." I refuse to be costumed as a villain. I am neither a hero nor a villain. I am human, no more and no less. Of course, what a great and noble thing it is to be a human being, when so many forces try to mold you to be their machine.
Speaking of machines, I have a new job. But breaking from the machine mold, the job is at the Sappington Garden Shop. Perhaps this seems like a strange place for me to be. It certainly seemed an odd choice of locale to me. After all, I don't know all that much about plants or soil or fertilizer. I got the job through two relatives of mine who work there, which is my connection. What I have found, however, is that the Garden Shop is exactly where I ought to be. In a tumultuous time in my life, which it certainly is, I'm discovering that working in such a place helps me keep my balance. I worked earlier tonite from 4 until 7, and it was an elixir for my soul. We're not very busy at this time of year (won't be until the Christmas trees start arriving), so few customers came onto the grounds. Instead, I worked in the concrete valley of the shop. The design shields the shop from the rattle of the intersection of Gravois and Sappington, and means that when you look up you are surrounded by sky. The sunset was beautiful today, and it felt good to arrange the potted plants into interesting patterns in the hopes of selling them before winter smothers them with cold.
Planted in the ground, they will survive. Left unsold in pots, they will not make it. I see a metaphor in this. The pots are very comfortable - we fill them with very rich soil, we water them, we can move them when the weather is bad so that they are protected from the storm. But left in their pots, they never grow very big, and when the winter comes they fade away. Planted in the ground, things are less certain. There might be burrowing bugs, the soil might not be as good, the water less regular. However, the only way a tree will grow to its full majesty is to be taken out of the pot and into the ground. The only way it will survive the hard, cold winter is, ironically, to be removed from its shelter. I wonder how deep my roots go in my own little pot, and I realize that soon, for my own good, I must uproot myself and plant myself into this world if I ever hope to bear fruit.
In a world that can be so hectic, I find myself looking for a way to keep myself from feeling lost amidst it all. I read the Tao te Ching when I was a sophomore, and it spoke to me then. However, I decided I was too busy for the legitimate meditation I needed to decide if this was something I could believe in. A few years later, I am drawn back to the book. It is a little more than 5,000 words, and it is highly metaphorical. Sometimes even tortuous in how obscure it can be. This annoys many people, but I find myself further drawn in. The problem is not that Lao-zi is unclear. The problem is that I am so mucked up with the detritus of life that I cannot perceive the fullness of his clarity. The Garden Shop helps me feel the tao of things, which is why I am enjoying it. In fact, through the hubbub, I attempt to allow myself to let go and follow the tao. When I have, I find that my problems no longer seem overwhelming. They are like rocks in a stream. If I am tense and solid, I will get hung up on them. If I am relaxed, if I allow myself to become like the water, I will effortlessly flow over them, wearing them away over time. It is written that "The tao that can be spoken of is not the true tao," and that "the one who doesn't know the tao speaks of it. The one who knows of the tao doesn't speak of it." I give you no missionary message, no advice. I won't try to explain it. But I felt it worth reflecting upon, and like my relationships, I have nothing to be ashamed of in terms of my spirituality. Some might scorn or deride it, but I don't care because I can feel that it is true.
Sometimes I question what to write in this journal. Considerations of personal revelation occur to me: how much? What to hold back? In what style should it be written? Will my revealing this make those who read this uncomfortable? I don't know the one and true answer to that question. I suppose it's on a case by case basis. I also realize that I am writing to an audience, albeit a very small one who, for the most part, know me personally. I question, do you care?
My answer is this: I will write what comes to mind, keeping in mind these factors. I have no way of knowing if what I write will spark interest, or be skimmed and scrolled. I am leaving footprints in the ether, so that I can revisit this place and time again, if I am so disposed. In the present, I suppose it is a sort of meditation, a reflection not only the facts of my days, but on how I feel about them and how they affect me. It is said, "to thine own self, be true." The only way to know if you're being true is to know yourself. In summation, I hope you get something out of my journal. If not, it does me a helpful service, which is why I have written in this journal for 19 long months. Because it helps me find my way, it is the longest self-imposed project onto which I have managed to hold.