regarding lost children
The bag has been retrieved. I repeat, the bag has been retrieved. I still stand by my French bank account comment.
In other news, today is Ash Wednesday, which marks the official beginning of Lent and, had I not decided to exercise prudence in another area of my life, the beginning of my vacation from Facebook, in repetition of last year's fast.
I've written before on the therapeutic effects of this online vacation, and that was very much what I felt last time. I hadn't given much thought to what else I might forego this time around, as I hadn't given much thought to really anything other than the Bar Exam, but I'm discovering that this religiously-inspired deprivation kink of mine is a healthier, more evolved, more focused form of formerly self-injurious impulses. Many of the same forces are at work. Much like how outside anguish can be channeled into art, this particular impetus is being similarly directed. It also powered my desire to participate, in my own minuscule way, in Ramadan back in 2013 while stationed in the West Bank. A very good law school friend of mine is Hindu but participated in Ramadan a few years back, going full-fast. When asked why, he simply shrugged, but I imagine it was more out of shyness and reticence to divulge perhaps overly personal motivations than out of any carelessness or insouciance.
Getting older has softened my view of asceticism. I wasn't antagonistic towards it before, but I saw it as some stark, sharp-edged, full-bodied ideal. The glow of self-inflicted emaciation, as though willful starving led inexorably towards wisdom. I'm relatively sure, at this point in my life, that such is not my path, having been forced in times prior and against my will to let my ribcage show, but the admiration remains.
Giving up Facebook for a period of time, particularly at this juncture where it has become the space it has become for me, seems doubly beneficial with regards to this particular goal of Lent, as it furthers the isolationist aspect. It forces introspection. The profusion of entries here of late is enough evidence of that. It slows me down. It quiets me.
In many ways, this is how I imagine retirement might feel like. A slowed down, quieter existence with so many noisy, extraneous, stressful things stripped away, so that I am surrounded mostly by the things that make me happy and that expand my spirit. That isn't to say that such a lifestyle will be completely devoid of hardship or challenge or acrimony. It is only to say that the gray hairs I will have accumulated by then will gather no further siblings.
During 2011, when deprivation colored so much of my life, desert occupied a large space in my writing. It was the setting for the novel I wrote during those summer months. And it was the setting for its screenplay adaptation. It was the setting for the stageplay that preceded it. And it is the setting for much of the book I wrote in the middle of last year.
While my naivety with regards to what can be found in the desert during those 40 days and 40 nights is abating, and while I stumble into the realization that hurting for hurt's sake is unproductive, I still do believe there's light and fulfillment and growth to be found there. That the things one discovers there are unique and cannot be found elsewhere.
The storyteller in me, the writer, cannot help but note the irony in the idea of desert-land providing the most fertile soil for self-realization.
In other news, today is Ash Wednesday, which marks the official beginning of Lent and, had I not decided to exercise prudence in another area of my life, the beginning of my vacation from Facebook, in repetition of last year's fast.
I've written before on the therapeutic effects of this online vacation, and that was very much what I felt last time. I hadn't given much thought to what else I might forego this time around, as I hadn't given much thought to really anything other than the Bar Exam, but I'm discovering that this religiously-inspired deprivation kink of mine is a healthier, more evolved, more focused form of formerly self-injurious impulses. Many of the same forces are at work. Much like how outside anguish can be channeled into art, this particular impetus is being similarly directed. It also powered my desire to participate, in my own minuscule way, in Ramadan back in 2013 while stationed in the West Bank. A very good law school friend of mine is Hindu but participated in Ramadan a few years back, going full-fast. When asked why, he simply shrugged, but I imagine it was more out of shyness and reticence to divulge perhaps overly personal motivations than out of any carelessness or insouciance.
Getting older has softened my view of asceticism. I wasn't antagonistic towards it before, but I saw it as some stark, sharp-edged, full-bodied ideal. The glow of self-inflicted emaciation, as though willful starving led inexorably towards wisdom. I'm relatively sure, at this point in my life, that such is not my path, having been forced in times prior and against my will to let my ribcage show, but the admiration remains.
Giving up Facebook for a period of time, particularly at this juncture where it has become the space it has become for me, seems doubly beneficial with regards to this particular goal of Lent, as it furthers the isolationist aspect. It forces introspection. The profusion of entries here of late is enough evidence of that. It slows me down. It quiets me.
In many ways, this is how I imagine retirement might feel like. A slowed down, quieter existence with so many noisy, extraneous, stressful things stripped away, so that I am surrounded mostly by the things that make me happy and that expand my spirit. That isn't to say that such a lifestyle will be completely devoid of hardship or challenge or acrimony. It is only to say that the gray hairs I will have accumulated by then will gather no further siblings.
During 2011, when deprivation colored so much of my life, desert occupied a large space in my writing. It was the setting for the novel I wrote during those summer months. And it was the setting for its screenplay adaptation. It was the setting for the stageplay that preceded it. And it is the setting for much of the book I wrote in the middle of last year.
While my naivety with regards to what can be found in the desert during those 40 days and 40 nights is abating, and while I stumble into the realization that hurting for hurt's sake is unproductive, I still do believe there's light and fulfillment and growth to be found there. That the things one discovers there are unique and cannot be found elsewhere.
The storyteller in me, the writer, cannot help but note the irony in the idea of desert-land providing the most fertile soil for self-realization.