Upd8
The last several weeks have been a refreshing dose of eased pressure. Revisiting home and hearth while mingling with the usual Wellingtonians have been the activities occupying most of my time, which is wonderful because it gives me the opportunity to release the stress which seemed to crescendo during finals week (though that was admittedly some time ago). Spending time with Arin, Steven, and Nick has reminded me of how undeniably lucky I am to have such genuine, thick-and-thin, irreplaceable companions; Adam, as well, has been an absolute pleasure to be around, though as always his schedule is tight. If only such things might persist. I look to the future with optimism (Or is it naivete? Perhaps the two are indistinguishable?), visualizing the days we'll visit each others' families with joy, catching up with each other over a hot meal and maintaining our strong bonds.
I feel that I must learn to how to meditate this coming semester, lest I become overwhelmed by the breadth of my goals. It often seems as though the weight of the world rests upon my shoulders, given the sheer quantity of tasks which I expect myself to accomplish. This scenario is notably marred by the human tendency to overestimate one's own potential for productivity, which has proven to be an interminable obstacle. I need to learn to center myself, to numb myself from the psychological scope which I assign to my daily activities. The irony herein is that this desire to learn to meditate contributes further to the long list of things I expect myself to do in the near future, the same list which has inspired this very desire.
Christmas proved quite satisfying this year, as I defied the realities of my fiscal situation in order to bathe in the satisfaction of sharing gifts with my family. This particular Christmas marked the first Christmas celebrated with my family as an admitted atheist. Though the prospect did nothing to subtract from the joy of the occasion, I find it generally more difficult to bond with my parents and my older brother, since the trio is irrevocably immersed in Catholicism. I hold fast my convictions, but still find myself wondering if I am not the one missing out. How comforting it must be to fall back on the belief in an omnipotent, merciful God who fashions all things according to his benevolent will! My one-on-one conversations with any of them end abruptly and awkwardly whenever they mention their spirituality, and I find it difficult to cope with the knowledge that they no doubt spend hours praying for my salvation, bargaining with their perceived God for my return to the Church. It doesn't make me feel any more comfortable when my father half-jokingly caricatures my conviction that reality is nothing more than that which we perceive; the gesture is playful enough in nature, but I'd sooner step on a squirrel than mock their deepest beliefs. Do they not owe me similar respect? I often feel the same way when my vegetarianism is criticized: if I do not challenge the opinions of others, why is it that they insist on challenging mine?
So much to wrestle with. So little time. Say some that there exist seven cardinal sins. Nonsense! There is but one, and its name is sloth. It is sloth that stays the hand of the writer, whispering in his ear sweet promises of apathy. It is sloth that slows the pace of the runner, demanding that he stop short of his true potential. It is sloth that closes the book of the reader, insisting upon a few meager hours of unnecessary sleep. Make no mistake, it is sloth that pervades the human psyche, seizing the high hopes of things to be and mangling them into rationalizations and half-successes. I would say, were there any truth to the words, that hereafter I shall deny sloth, casting aside its comfort in favor of some new-found sense of vigor. This, however, is not the case. Mere mortal that I am, I am bidden by forces unseen to undergo the inevitable phases of my passions. All journeys begun with a great stride eventually wane in potency, until the pace is slowed to a weary walk. While the traveler will (in time) once more pick up his pace, it will inevitably be lessened in comparison to its beginning, resulting in a modicum of liveliness which falls short of expectation. Those who shoot for the stars will but reach the moon, an adage more awakening than it is depressing.
Now, I off to bed, with dreams of the morrow. May they be but minimally dulled.
I feel that I must learn to how to meditate this coming semester, lest I become overwhelmed by the breadth of my goals. It often seems as though the weight of the world rests upon my shoulders, given the sheer quantity of tasks which I expect myself to accomplish. This scenario is notably marred by the human tendency to overestimate one's own potential for productivity, which has proven to be an interminable obstacle. I need to learn to center myself, to numb myself from the psychological scope which I assign to my daily activities. The irony herein is that this desire to learn to meditate contributes further to the long list of things I expect myself to do in the near future, the same list which has inspired this very desire.
Christmas proved quite satisfying this year, as I defied the realities of my fiscal situation in order to bathe in the satisfaction of sharing gifts with my family. This particular Christmas marked the first Christmas celebrated with my family as an admitted atheist. Though the prospect did nothing to subtract from the joy of the occasion, I find it generally more difficult to bond with my parents and my older brother, since the trio is irrevocably immersed in Catholicism. I hold fast my convictions, but still find myself wondering if I am not the one missing out. How comforting it must be to fall back on the belief in an omnipotent, merciful God who fashions all things according to his benevolent will! My one-on-one conversations with any of them end abruptly and awkwardly whenever they mention their spirituality, and I find it difficult to cope with the knowledge that they no doubt spend hours praying for my salvation, bargaining with their perceived God for my return to the Church. It doesn't make me feel any more comfortable when my father half-jokingly caricatures my conviction that reality is nothing more than that which we perceive; the gesture is playful enough in nature, but I'd sooner step on a squirrel than mock their deepest beliefs. Do they not owe me similar respect? I often feel the same way when my vegetarianism is criticized: if I do not challenge the opinions of others, why is it that they insist on challenging mine?
So much to wrestle with. So little time. Say some that there exist seven cardinal sins. Nonsense! There is but one, and its name is sloth. It is sloth that stays the hand of the writer, whispering in his ear sweet promises of apathy. It is sloth that slows the pace of the runner, demanding that he stop short of his true potential. It is sloth that closes the book of the reader, insisting upon a few meager hours of unnecessary sleep. Make no mistake, it is sloth that pervades the human psyche, seizing the high hopes of things to be and mangling them into rationalizations and half-successes. I would say, were there any truth to the words, that hereafter I shall deny sloth, casting aside its comfort in favor of some new-found sense of vigor. This, however, is not the case. Mere mortal that I am, I am bidden by forces unseen to undergo the inevitable phases of my passions. All journeys begun with a great stride eventually wane in potency, until the pace is slowed to a weary walk. While the traveler will (in time) once more pick up his pace, it will inevitably be lessened in comparison to its beginning, resulting in a modicum of liveliness which falls short of expectation. Those who shoot for the stars will but reach the moon, an adage more awakening than it is depressing.
Now, I off to bed, with dreams of the morrow. May they be but minimally dulled.