This is the autumn of my pessimism. I am grateful to be alive but feel simultaneously brain-dead and heart-wounded. I feel as though I am mentally and spiritually terminal. Politics and betrayal have finally put me on the ledge. I'm ready to jump. For one thing, I've overdosed on watching FOX News. I am compelled to do it because I want to see what the whack-jobs are up to. It's not calm-inducing, and, at my age, I should stay calm most of the time. I need psychotropic medication but can't afford it because of the Republican Drug Plan. We'll never get meaningful health-insurance reform in this country no matter how long we live. The country is run by the inmates, and they are mean and heartless. I am a total pessimist. We are aging by the minute. Where have our lives gone? We are staring at the Grim Reaper now. Tolle says there is only the "Now." The "Now" feels uncomfortable, like a tight girdle. I thought I was done with girdles. But no-o-o-o! Girdles give you gas. Gas is painful.
I am observing that jealousy and envy are stupid and unjustifiable emotions but present nonetheless.
A "friend" just dumped me unceremoniously after a 40-year close friendship because she didn't like my political postings on Facebook.
Nobody is so righteous that they are in a moral position to judge another human being, and yet most of what we do when awake is judge others and judge events.
I feel betrayed by my body and my emotions and by others' thoughtlessness and inconsideration.
In May 2009, my first Social Security check arrived. It was a shining milestone on the long road toward poverty and second-class citizenship. I wonder how old people with less Social Security money than I get can possibly survive. This is no country for old men.
As I write this, it feels like I am talking about some other person, an old person, certainly not me. My 66-year-old body still has a mind that thinks I am 35.
My house is for sale, but it couldn't be a worse housing market.
We are living in the day room of an insane asylum. I am considering buying a handgun because everyone else has one. I thought we were in the "end times" during the Bush regime, but, on reflection, that was a period when the right-wing nutcases were somewhat placated. Now that we have a biracial Marxist Communist Socialist (wish they'd make up their stupid minds) President, the old white boys' club and their gun-toting, Bible-thumping, "Christian" militia are really on a rampage. Canada looks so inviting, if only it weren't so damn cold. I don't know how much longer I can bear living in this uncivilized and ignorant country. We are pitiful as a nation. You have to admit it.
I feel I should go about my life wearing a tin-foil hat with a propeller just to deflect the incoming psycho-rhetoric. Instead, I am on Facebook, polluting the pages with political backlash. It's all just more insanity and distraction. Facebook is great for narcissists who like to broadcast to their friends every time they pick their noses or scratch their butts. Pay attention to ME! I am somebody! I have things that you don't have! That's the major narcissistic function of Facebook.
I like Facebook for the political fights it can instigate, but nobody wants to play with me.
I think I have diabetes now. You can fool Mother Nature for a while, but then it all comes into you like a physiologic tsunami.
Now that I am near the end of this puny existence, I wonder what it was all about and what I learned.
One thing I did learn is that you can truly count on only a very few people in a lifetime. People you thought were friends will drop you like a hot stone or drift away and pretend you never existed and never spent all that time together. They will pretend you were never the other half of being "in love." I am certainly cynical about the human race, a flawed species if ever there was one, but I religiously believe in the power of negativity as much as in the power of positivity. I think both are necessary to see the truth. We are shadow and light. There is no escaping it.
I wonder why I wasted so much of my life on being "in love" with others who only disappointed me in the end. And I wonder how deeply I disappointed them as well.
I console myself with my own attempts to be true to my passions. I never abandoned anybody. I am truly sorry for my sins. I have always maintained that evil is the unwillingness to look at one's own sins.
Forgiveness is a wonderful invention if used correctly, but I also think there are some things that you cannot forgive. Betrayal is one of those unforgiveable things and is very high on my list.
Everybody else seems so much more productive, sane, and happy than I am.
I think I should not expect that happiness or contentment will be a permanent condition. I used to decry that state of affairs, but now I think I am part of a cosmic balancing act. For every skinny person, there ought to be a fat person just as a reminder. For every pollyanna, there ought to be a melancholic as a warning. And so forth. I am fulfilling my destiny even if I don't know what it is.
I am a pessimist but am grateful for the few friends who are unsinkable rafts in this chaotic ocean---solid places on which I can briefly rest my oars. I think about them every day and hope they have moments of sheer sanguinity and blessedness.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
A Granddaughter Coming of Age
Here is a 24-year-old journalist, adventurer, philosopher, observer, artist, sage, and poet in the making. I proudly post her latest missive. Her words should be immortalized. It is hard not to unabashedly live vicariously through her experiences.
Dear Friends and Family,
There are no excuses for not keeping in touch more consistently, if at all, though I will nonchalantly throw in that I have no readily available Internet or phone access (it's kind of a contributing factor). Currently, I am leeching off of a WiFi spot in downtown Zortman (Montana) at the motel. It is a Saturday night, which means Zortman, population 75, is alive with activity. It also doesn't help that I am 200 feet from the main attraction in Zortman, perhaps the only: The Bar. Here with my borrowed laptop, I am enjoying the brisk weather and hazy moon peeping out from the mountains.
My summer in Montana has reached its halfway point. I hear rumors that the remaining crew will be let go in the middle of October. So, it looks like I will be spending my 24th birthday in Montana, though I don't think there is anywhere else I would want to spend it. I am in love with Zortman. The mountains have seeped deep into my soul, and I feel like this is the first place that I have let it---the first place I want to take over my heart. Nowhere has ever felt like home until now. I'm still analyzing this new feeling but taking it with a grain of salt as well. Don't worry; I haven't grown any roots yet. I would say it's just the feeling.
I would begin from the beginning, but there is far too much. Simply put, it's too late in the evening to start writing a novel. I will tell you that all of the summers of Girl Scout Camp have not helped me prepare for this world: The "Man's World." Which I honestly mean in no sexist way. There are simply things throughout my life that I have never been exposed to, and the plain simple fact is that (a) I'm a girl, and (b) I didn't grow up on a farm.
It's almost like an unconscious form of protection by men, at least from what I have observed. My "boys" have been helpful and understanding and patient with my complete ineptitude in their world. They have calmly and courageously shown me how to use a chainsaw and have never expected me to push myself past my comfort zone. It's a heartening thing to think that I've been hired based on the fact that I will work hard, period. Not how fast I work or how much I can plug out but the plain fact that I will work hard. That's not to say they haven't been pushing me. Far from it. I have reached new physical limits, which are constantly changing. I keep pushing myself harder and harder, mostly out of curiosity. I wonder if limits exist anymore. For as one of my captains said, " You can train yourself to do anything."
Oh, how I ache with stories and adventures. I wish they were like water and everybody could drink from my well. I'm overflowing. Take them, enjoy them. Feel my fears, my joys, my triumphs, my failures, my life.
Even though it has been a slow fire season, that has not decreased the number of events. I love the irony. Everyone keeps saying, "Thank God it's been a slow season. Thank God it's been a slow season." Echos from the corners of the earth. Well, I hate to break it to you slow-season believers, but I actually encounter more dangers with this slow season. Because instead of a tool in my hand I now wield a chainsaw. Far more dangers than any job involving fire. In fact...some would say exponentially more dangerous. I now hope there will be prayers for fire.
Well, it is late, and my energy dwindles. Hopefully this short message will suffice on my happy existence. I am happy. I suppose that's really all people want to know. I love you all.
Erika
Dear Friends and Family,
There are no excuses for not keeping in touch more consistently, if at all, though I will nonchalantly throw in that I have no readily available Internet or phone access (it's kind of a contributing factor). Currently, I am leeching off of a WiFi spot in downtown Zortman (Montana) at the motel. It is a Saturday night, which means Zortman, population 75, is alive with activity. It also doesn't help that I am 200 feet from the main attraction in Zortman, perhaps the only: The Bar. Here with my borrowed laptop, I am enjoying the brisk weather and hazy moon peeping out from the mountains.
My summer in Montana has reached its halfway point. I hear rumors that the remaining crew will be let go in the middle of October. So, it looks like I will be spending my 24th birthday in Montana, though I don't think there is anywhere else I would want to spend it. I am in love with Zortman. The mountains have seeped deep into my soul, and I feel like this is the first place that I have let it---the first place I want to take over my heart. Nowhere has ever felt like home until now. I'm still analyzing this new feeling but taking it with a grain of salt as well. Don't worry; I haven't grown any roots yet. I would say it's just the feeling.
I would begin from the beginning, but there is far too much. Simply put, it's too late in the evening to start writing a novel. I will tell you that all of the summers of Girl Scout Camp have not helped me prepare for this world: The "Man's World." Which I honestly mean in no sexist way. There are simply things throughout my life that I have never been exposed to, and the plain simple fact is that (a) I'm a girl, and (b) I didn't grow up on a farm.
It's almost like an unconscious form of protection by men, at least from what I have observed. My "boys" have been helpful and understanding and patient with my complete ineptitude in their world. They have calmly and courageously shown me how to use a chainsaw and have never expected me to push myself past my comfort zone. It's a heartening thing to think that I've been hired based on the fact that I will work hard, period. Not how fast I work or how much I can plug out but the plain fact that I will work hard. That's not to say they haven't been pushing me. Far from it. I have reached new physical limits, which are constantly changing. I keep pushing myself harder and harder, mostly out of curiosity. I wonder if limits exist anymore. For as one of my captains said, " You can train yourself to do anything."
Oh, how I ache with stories and adventures. I wish they were like water and everybody could drink from my well. I'm overflowing. Take them, enjoy them. Feel my fears, my joys, my triumphs, my failures, my life.
Even though it has been a slow fire season, that has not decreased the number of events. I love the irony. Everyone keeps saying, "Thank God it's been a slow season. Thank God it's been a slow season." Echos from the corners of the earth. Well, I hate to break it to you slow-season believers, but I actually encounter more dangers with this slow season. Because instead of a tool in my hand I now wield a chainsaw. Far more dangers than any job involving fire. In fact...some would say exponentially more dangerous. I now hope there will be prayers for fire.
Well, it is late, and my energy dwindles. Hopefully this short message will suffice on my happy existence. I am happy. I suppose that's really all people want to know. I love you all.
Erika
What Ted Kennedy Meant
Over the past several days, I have watched every minute of the televised events surrounding the death of Senator Edward M. Kennedy. I was electronically "there" for all of the memorial service held at the John F. Kennedy library, the entire Mass held at the Mission Church in Roxbury, Massachusetts, and the afternoon and evening that witnessed the transportation of his casket from Boston to Washington, DC, and his subsequent burial ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.
I listened carefully to every word that was spoken about Teddy in the many speeches that were given over the course of the past 3 days. I ruminated, cried, and laughed. I cried because death makes us sad and grief hurts. I laughed because there were many stories told by his colleagues and friends that were truly funny. But mostly I cried and felt a sense of despair, personal and global.
It's not just about Teddy Kennedy's death, the unbelievable tragedies he and his family have had to endure, the political and personal "mistakes" he has made, how he was not a perfect person with a flawless record, or the grief and pain his offspring are obviously suffering. As the emotions of each day ebbed into the background, I began to discover what the tears were really about: I cry because we have lost a liberal champion, a progressive thinker and do-er, and a real force in politics who already accomplished more than we could have hoped for. I cry because that loud voice (who didn't always get his way) is gone forever. When we felt the bitter disappointments handed to us by gutless other politicians for whom we had voted in good faith, I knew we had Ted Kennedy. His passing leaves a void that is hugely gaping and abysmal.
I cry too because I am touched by his own redemption. I am stirred in my soul with the knowing, finally, that imperfection doesn't mean defeat. Imperfection doesn't mean the baby has to be thrown asunder with the bath water. Imperfection doesn't condemn a whole life to invalidity or nothingness.
Imperfect people can redeem themselves and do good and excellent things while remaining imperfect. Not everything has to rise to the level of perfection to be considered valuable.
All of my life, I've leaned toward idealism---the way things "ought" to be---and when they weren't, that it what I mourned. Hearing, seeing, tasting, reading, or experiencing anything that implied or demonstrated perfection to me always brought (and brings) me to tears.
I will always be moved and stirred in my soul by perfection and idealism, but now, after Teddy Kennedy's death, I finally and concretely realize that there is a road to betterment that is not constructed with sinlessness. There is a path called "striving for excellence" that is not paved with pure gold, and it doesn't have to be. The path less traveled, the one full of brush and thorny overgrowth, sharp curves, side roads, weeds, rocks, logs, mud, the occasional flower, and dried, discarded leaves is a legitimate path that can be taken. In fact, such a path may be more intrinsically interesting, accessible, challenging, entertaining, productive, and inspiring than the smooth road that charts a straight line to that improbable destination called perfection.
Teddy Kennedy's life and death make me feel better about my own life. It seems like a selfish thing to say, but any good life lesson can come with the most unusual of events, emotions, or thoughts. For all the good he did for us in this country, and the world, I thank him. For the good he did for me in re-evaluating my own life of imperfection, I really thank him. May he rest in peace. And may the rest of his political colleagues take up the banner of his perseverance and do the right (even if not the perfect) thing.
I listened carefully to every word that was spoken about Teddy in the many speeches that were given over the course of the past 3 days. I ruminated, cried, and laughed. I cried because death makes us sad and grief hurts. I laughed because there were many stories told by his colleagues and friends that were truly funny. But mostly I cried and felt a sense of despair, personal and global.
It's not just about Teddy Kennedy's death, the unbelievable tragedies he and his family have had to endure, the political and personal "mistakes" he has made, how he was not a perfect person with a flawless record, or the grief and pain his offspring are obviously suffering. As the emotions of each day ebbed into the background, I began to discover what the tears were really about: I cry because we have lost a liberal champion, a progressive thinker and do-er, and a real force in politics who already accomplished more than we could have hoped for. I cry because that loud voice (who didn't always get his way) is gone forever. When we felt the bitter disappointments handed to us by gutless other politicians for whom we had voted in good faith, I knew we had Ted Kennedy. His passing leaves a void that is hugely gaping and abysmal.
I cry too because I am touched by his own redemption. I am stirred in my soul with the knowing, finally, that imperfection doesn't mean defeat. Imperfection doesn't mean the baby has to be thrown asunder with the bath water. Imperfection doesn't condemn a whole life to invalidity or nothingness.
Imperfect people can redeem themselves and do good and excellent things while remaining imperfect. Not everything has to rise to the level of perfection to be considered valuable.
All of my life, I've leaned toward idealism---the way things "ought" to be---and when they weren't, that it what I mourned. Hearing, seeing, tasting, reading, or experiencing anything that implied or demonstrated perfection to me always brought (and brings) me to tears.
I will always be moved and stirred in my soul by perfection and idealism, but now, after Teddy Kennedy's death, I finally and concretely realize that there is a road to betterment that is not constructed with sinlessness. There is a path called "striving for excellence" that is not paved with pure gold, and it doesn't have to be. The path less traveled, the one full of brush and thorny overgrowth, sharp curves, side roads, weeds, rocks, logs, mud, the occasional flower, and dried, discarded leaves is a legitimate path that can be taken. In fact, such a path may be more intrinsically interesting, accessible, challenging, entertaining, productive, and inspiring than the smooth road that charts a straight line to that improbable destination called perfection.
Teddy Kennedy's life and death make me feel better about my own life. It seems like a selfish thing to say, but any good life lesson can come with the most unusual of events, emotions, or thoughts. For all the good he did for us in this country, and the world, I thank him. For the good he did for me in re-evaluating my own life of imperfection, I really thank him. May he rest in peace. And may the rest of his political colleagues take up the banner of his perseverance and do the right (even if not the perfect) thing.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Betrayal, Narcissism, Solipsism, and the Unknowable
A common language is vital to understanding another's point of view or perspective. Here are some working definitions:
Betrayal is the breaking or violation of a presumptive social contract, trust, or confidence. Betrayal produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship between individuals.
Narcissism is behavior that involves infatuation and obsession with one's self, sometimes to the exclusion of others, and can consist of egotistic and ruthless pursuit of one's gratification, dominance, and ambition.
Solipsism is the notion that it is impossible ever to know another person, so there is no need to bother with understanding or empathizing. This often results in an egotistical refusal to acknowledge the needs or sometimes even the existence of others. Solipsism is often referred to as the belief that nothing real exists outside of one's own mind, thoughts, and ambitions.
The unknowable is that which cannot be known, despite one's best efforts; a thing beyond comprehension.
Recently, I experienced something that was, to me, unknowable and unpredictable. It was and is also seemingly beyond my comprehension. That thing was the unilateral dissolution of a 40-year friendship by a person (Alta) I had always considered truthful, straightforward, free of prejudice, loyal, spiritual, and loving. Alta still may be all of those things, but that's not my current way of perceiving Alta's qualities and character. After 40 years of friendship that manifested itself in being mutually supportive, I was shocked (stunned) to learn that Alta considers my characteristics to now include self-hatred, bitterness, unforgiveness, and psychoemotional illness. I had no idea Alta felt this way or that Alta could or would unilaterally end (I had no say in the matter) such a long friendship. It never came up in 40 years of intense, long, and soul-searching conversations. I feel betrayed and experience all of the moral and psychological conflict it is possible to feel in these unexpected circumstances.
I am not sure if narcissism and/or solipsism influenced Alta's decision, so I can't make that claim, but recent conversations with Alta lead me to believe that there is a preoccupation with self and self-expression such that no one else's point of view can penetrate Alta's desire to be spiritually "right" about how life should be experienced. No challenge to Alta's prevailing philosophies are allowed. This leads me to believe there is a degree of solipsism involved in the rather rigid mindset that seems to dominate Alta's behavior and intolerance of divergent opinions. Intellectually and emotionally, I don't think that is a sign of good mental health. I think it's a kind of mental arthritis that leads to diminution in function, flexibility, tolerance, and inclusivity. That is sad but reversible if only the will to reverse it were present. I fear the will to change is missing in this regretable circumstance.
The will to reverse or modify any chosen course is primary to any salubrious change. That is also seemingly what is lacking in our progressive politicians who are currently struggling with how to reconcile pending legislation on health-insurance reform. Even those with the power to change are impotent unless the will to change the current course is exerted.
Betrayal is the breaking or violation of a presumptive social contract, trust, or confidence. Betrayal produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship between individuals.
Narcissism is behavior that involves infatuation and obsession with one's self, sometimes to the exclusion of others, and can consist of egotistic and ruthless pursuit of one's gratification, dominance, and ambition.
Solipsism is the notion that it is impossible ever to know another person, so there is no need to bother with understanding or empathizing. This often results in an egotistical refusal to acknowledge the needs or sometimes even the existence of others. Solipsism is often referred to as the belief that nothing real exists outside of one's own mind, thoughts, and ambitions.
The unknowable is that which cannot be known, despite one's best efforts; a thing beyond comprehension.
Recently, I experienced something that was, to me, unknowable and unpredictable. It was and is also seemingly beyond my comprehension. That thing was the unilateral dissolution of a 40-year friendship by a person (Alta) I had always considered truthful, straightforward, free of prejudice, loyal, spiritual, and loving. Alta still may be all of those things, but that's not my current way of perceiving Alta's qualities and character. After 40 years of friendship that manifested itself in being mutually supportive, I was shocked (stunned) to learn that Alta considers my characteristics to now include self-hatred, bitterness, unforgiveness, and psychoemotional illness. I had no idea Alta felt this way or that Alta could or would unilaterally end (I had no say in the matter) such a long friendship. It never came up in 40 years of intense, long, and soul-searching conversations. I feel betrayed and experience all of the moral and psychological conflict it is possible to feel in these unexpected circumstances.
I am not sure if narcissism and/or solipsism influenced Alta's decision, so I can't make that claim, but recent conversations with Alta lead me to believe that there is a preoccupation with self and self-expression such that no one else's point of view can penetrate Alta's desire to be spiritually "right" about how life should be experienced. No challenge to Alta's prevailing philosophies are allowed. This leads me to believe there is a degree of solipsism involved in the rather rigid mindset that seems to dominate Alta's behavior and intolerance of divergent opinions. Intellectually and emotionally, I don't think that is a sign of good mental health. I think it's a kind of mental arthritis that leads to diminution in function, flexibility, tolerance, and inclusivity. That is sad but reversible if only the will to reverse it were present. I fear the will to change is missing in this regretable circumstance.
The will to reverse or modify any chosen course is primary to any salubrious change. That is also seemingly what is lacking in our progressive politicians who are currently struggling with how to reconcile pending legislation on health-insurance reform. Even those with the power to change are impotent unless the will to change the current course is exerted.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Amazing Grace Is What We Need
Composed probably between 1760 and 1770 in Olney, "Amazing Grace" was possibly one of the hymns written by John Newton for a weekly service. Through the years, other writers have composed additional verses to the hymn which came to be known as “Amazing Grace.” In the Olney Hymns, it was not entitled as such. These six stanzas appeared in both the first edition in 1779 and the 1808 edition, the one nearest the date of Newton’s death. The origin of the melody is unknown. Most hymnals attribute it to an early American folk melody. The Bill Moyers special on “Amazing Grace” speculated that it may have originated as the tune of a song the slaves sang in slave ships as they were transported in chains, against their will, to God Knows What.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me;
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.
Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
The earth shall soon to ruin go,
The sun refuse to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.
I truly hope that all the despairing people on this earth, who will never see justice done to humankind because of greed, selfishness, violence, and evil, will have their reward in the next life. I truly hope that grace (love) leads us all home.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me;
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.
Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
The earth shall soon to ruin go,
The sun refuse to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.
I truly hope that all the despairing people on this earth, who will never see justice done to humankind because of greed, selfishness, violence, and evil, will have their reward in the next life. I truly hope that grace (love) leads us all home.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Boycott Whole Foods
John Mackey, CEO of Whole Foods, wrote an op-ed piece this week for the Wall Street Journal giving his "personal" opinion about health insurance reform. It comes right out of the conservative (Republican) playbook and calls Obama supporters "socialists" and the proposed reform an "entitlement." It looks like Mr. Mackey has forgotten that most of the people who shop at Whole Foods are liberal-minded yuppies, who now need to be aware of Mr. Mackey's personal agenda. He is a rich anti-union corporatist who got that way because we willingly pay for his overpriced food. No more! This is the same guy who, between 1999 and 2006, went on message boards championing his store and deriding his competitor Wild Oats (which Whole Foods took over in 2007). He was investigated by the SEC and his own corporate board for these posts. Now he's waged another campaign to defeat health insurance reform. I am going to boycott Whole Foods, and I urge others to do the same. Corporatists only understand profits. Let's decrease his. There are other places to shop.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
A Hard Week
It's been a hard week. Mark Sanford, Sarah Palin, Michael Jackson, North Korean cyber attack, more deaths in Afghanistan, serial killer (shot and killed) in South Carolina, the usual sarcastic and whining/screaming BS on FOX News, and the continual lies from politicians and the media. It's hard to know what is the truth these days, and perhaps we never knew and will never know. Some think there is such a thing as "absolute truth," but prove it to me. Maybe truth, like beauty, is relative to whatever situation is before one's eyes. We all see things differently---there is no debate about that---and do so filtered through our individual history, personality, education, experience, temperament, spirituality, emotionality, and level of sanity.
I have just finished reading The Border Trilogy by Cormac McCarthy (author of No Country for Old Men, made into a recent movie). The three volumes are: All the Pretty Horses (1992), The Crossing (1994), and Cities of the Plain (1998). I am sharing one passage from each volume because these excerpts represent philosophies that are worth serious "think-time." They are compelling, profound, disturbing, and (ironically) comforting words.
From All The Pretty Horses: "He said that those who have endured some misfortune will always be set apart but that it is just that misfortune which is their gift and which is their strength and that they must make their way back into the common enterprise of man, for without they do so it cannot go forward and they themselves will wither in bitterness. I wanted very much to be a person of value, and I had to ask myself how this could be possible if there were not something like a soul or like a spirit that is in the life of a person and which could endure any misfortune or disfigurement and yet be no less for it. If one were to be a person of value, that value could not be a condition subject to the hazards of fortune. It had to be a quality that could not change. No matter what. Long before morning, I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I'd always known. That all courage is a form of constancy. That it is always himself that the coward abandons first. After this, all other betrayals come easily. I knew that courage came with less struggle for some than for others, but I believed that anyone who desired it could have it. That the desire was the thing itself. The thing itself. I could think of nothing else of which that was true."
From The Crossing: "Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us, they no longer have even a name. The story, on the other hand, can never be lost from its place in the world, for it is that place. There is but one world, and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. For this world also, which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood, is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales, and yet these also are the self-same tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall. And those seams that are hid from us are, of course, in the tale itself, and the tale has no abode or place of being except in the telling only, and there it lives and makes it home, and therefore we can never be done with the telling. Of the telling, there is no end. And whether in Caborca or Huisiachepic or in whatever other place by whatever other name or by no name at all, I say again all tales are one. Rightly heard, all tales are one. "
From Cities of the Plain: "He was not a man given to illusions. He knew that those things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than echo and shadow. In the end, perhaps not even that. He knew that our enemies by contrast seem always with us. The greater our hatred, the more persistent the memory of them so that a truly terrible enemy becomes deathless. So that the man who has done you great injury or injustice makes himself a guest in your house forever. Perhaps only forgiveness can dislodge him."
I have just finished reading The Border Trilogy by Cormac McCarthy (author of No Country for Old Men, made into a recent movie). The three volumes are: All the Pretty Horses (1992), The Crossing (1994), and Cities of the Plain (1998). I am sharing one passage from each volume because these excerpts represent philosophies that are worth serious "think-time." They are compelling, profound, disturbing, and (ironically) comforting words.
From All The Pretty Horses: "He said that those who have endured some misfortune will always be set apart but that it is just that misfortune which is their gift and which is their strength and that they must make their way back into the common enterprise of man, for without they do so it cannot go forward and they themselves will wither in bitterness. I wanted very much to be a person of value, and I had to ask myself how this could be possible if there were not something like a soul or like a spirit that is in the life of a person and which could endure any misfortune or disfigurement and yet be no less for it. If one were to be a person of value, that value could not be a condition subject to the hazards of fortune. It had to be a quality that could not change. No matter what. Long before morning, I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I'd always known. That all courage is a form of constancy. That it is always himself that the coward abandons first. After this, all other betrayals come easily. I knew that courage came with less struggle for some than for others, but I believed that anyone who desired it could have it. That the desire was the thing itself. The thing itself. I could think of nothing else of which that was true."
From The Crossing: "Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us, they no longer have even a name. The story, on the other hand, can never be lost from its place in the world, for it is that place. There is but one world, and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. For this world also, which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood, is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales, and yet these also are the self-same tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall. And those seams that are hid from us are, of course, in the tale itself, and the tale has no abode or place of being except in the telling only, and there it lives and makes it home, and therefore we can never be done with the telling. Of the telling, there is no end. And whether in Caborca or Huisiachepic or in whatever other place by whatever other name or by no name at all, I say again all tales are one. Rightly heard, all tales are one. "
From Cities of the Plain: "He was not a man given to illusions. He knew that those things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than echo and shadow. In the end, perhaps not even that. He knew that our enemies by contrast seem always with us. The greater our hatred, the more persistent the memory of them so that a truly terrible enemy becomes deathless. So that the man who has done you great injury or injustice makes himself a guest in your house forever. Perhaps only forgiveness can dislodge him."
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