The glamour of your powerful peak
So entices me to summit your mountainous throne,
And impels me to journey up
Your twisted trail.
I am welcomed with encouraging breezes and
Luscious moss, and
The flowers gossip over my
Foreign footprints.
Yet as I near your
Majestic peak
I am greeted with a
Glacier like glare as the
Air nibbles at my ears and
Bullies my nose.
You prohibit even common trees to
Enjoy your highness,
Reigning over your powerless citizens:
Your blindly faithful flowers and
Your helpless rocks.
Your brilliant berries and
Your simple stream.
With the view you hold
Possibility kneels at the base of your peak.
Befriend the beauty of
Wisdom.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Broken Peace
With anxious apathy
and a Soothing shadow,
my Green walls stare at
Me,
Waiting with
blank ignorance,
blinking with wonder.
Oh, child you are
untouched by wisdom,
unscathed by worry,
yet tarnished with the
scratch of play and
tickled by the twilight that
peaks through my window.
These empty walls,
uncorrupted by reason,
Yearn for the grace of a
Friend.
So I steal a wooden
Piece from my desk,
Grasp it in my tough palm.
She speaks to me
in a language I long
to understand.
She whispers
“Shalom”
In the depths of
My hand.
Like a lullaby
the words possess
my ears, and
imprison my mind.
With clumsy fingers
I hurry to help her to the
Window sill throne.
Oh, nurturer of the hopeful,
Oh, burden of the not,
You bear the end of the now
And the dawn of an
Unreachable Sun.
And then,
My arrogant hand
Drops the delicate
Wooden word,
And I watch as
She breaks in two.
Foolish am I to
Believe that her
Prescence would yet shine.
Only a child,
Wishful and naïve
Could truly think that
Peace
Will Succeed.
and a Soothing shadow,
my Green walls stare at
Me,
Waiting with
blank ignorance,
blinking with wonder.
Oh, child you are
untouched by wisdom,
unscathed by worry,
yet tarnished with the
scratch of play and
tickled by the twilight that
peaks through my window.
These empty walls,
uncorrupted by reason,
Yearn for the grace of a
Friend.
So I steal a wooden
Piece from my desk,
Grasp it in my tough palm.
She speaks to me
in a language I long
to understand.
She whispers
“Shalom”
In the depths of
My hand.
Like a lullaby
the words possess
my ears, and
imprison my mind.
With clumsy fingers
I hurry to help her to the
Window sill throne.
Oh, nurturer of the hopeful,
Oh, burden of the not,
You bear the end of the now
And the dawn of an
Unreachable Sun.
And then,
My arrogant hand
Drops the delicate
Wooden word,
And I watch as
She breaks in two.
Foolish am I to
Believe that her
Prescence would yet shine.
Only a child,
Wishful and naïve
Could truly think that
Peace
Will Succeed.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The truthfulness and authenticity behind the dreadfully disturbing war stories of soldiers and veterans is often questioned by skeptical listeners, wary readers, and even military personnel defending the army. The inhumanity, the despair, and the utter wretchedness depicted in tales of soldiers frequently frighten the untainted ears and minds of civilians, provoking a longing for disbelief, and a desire for blindness in the light of astonishing misery and unimaginable actions. Such skepticism surfaced with an article entitled “Shock Troops” published in the July 23, 2007 issue of The New Republic. Several disgusting events were illuminated in this article (preceded by an earlier piece by the same author entitled “War Bonds”), provoking intense incredulity from readers concerning the veracity of the story. Although the facts of the story perhaps do not parallel the truth, we must recognize the sentiment behind such tales. For the sake of legality, factual reality is necessary, but for the purpose of objective learning it is not the truthfulness of the facts that must be considered, but it is the sentiment behind such depictions that we must recognize. Perhaps a story fails to adequately follow the lines of authenticity, but this does not make the soldier a liar. It is crucial to recognize that the fog of terror and the chaos of war may prevent a soldier’s memory from being loyal to the truth, and the tales that are told must be recognized not for the authenticity of the events, but for the realness of the emotions that trigger the words of the storyteller, and what these words reveal about the nature of war.
The indignant readers of The New Republic could not fathom that the events depicted in “Shock Troops” could possibly be real. A myriad of arguments and articles were presented refuting “Scott Thomas’” (pseudonym) descriptions of such incidents as the intentional slaughtering of dogs, gross mockery of an IED woman, and making light of a mass grave filled with the skeletons of children. Could this have really occurred? Many readers believe not, and attack Thomas’ claims by stating that the stories are “highly implausible” (The Weekly Standard). Although such actions are terribly inexcusable, it is important that these accounts are not simply dismissed for lack of authenticity, because despite the questionable facts, the sentiment behind the stories holds immense importance in understanding the harshness of war. The terror one experiences in the face of war is evident through the stories soldiers return with, and it is not merely the events that we must consider, but the words that are spoken that we must delve into and learn from, without tripping on the question of veracity.
The events described in “Shock Troops” are definitely “shocking”, but can we not pry out the emotion upon which this account rests? These stories clearly illustrate the crude destructiveness of war while illuminating the personal affects that individuals experience. By reading war books such as The Things They Carried and All Quiet on the Western Front it is clear that war is devastating, and simply because these events are not “true” does not negate the sentiments described. Many war stories conduct a sense of dismalness and the horror of war, while accompanying these images with satirical humor. It is imperative that we read such stories not as an attempt to gain knowledge of events, but to gain insight into the minds of the soldiers and the nature of war itself.
Thomas, (his actual name is Beauchamp), “recounted some grotesque incidents in his columns, including his own mocking of a woman disfigured by the war” (The New York Times). His tales are not depictions of valiant acts of courage, or boastful accounts in which he dueled with death, but events that possibly bear shame. What can we draw from the words of Beauchamp? Questioning the validity of his words is one option, but it is digging into the meaning of the events is of much greater academic value. Beauchamp’s articles show us that war has the potential to twist minds and force people to do things that seem undoable, or unthinkable.
Much of the outrage that followed Beauchamp’s article stemmed not only from the effect that such an account may have on the credibility of the United States’ military, but the effect it would have on the image of America as a whole. The incidents described in “Shock Troops” are dreadfully immoral and greatly offensive, but did such events really occur? Where the truth lies is unknown, as there is evidence supporting both arguments. Yet the answer only truly matters if the law is involved. Prosecuting those who committed such acts must be separated from prosecuting the words of the author. Beauchamp’s article must not be recognized for the incidents it describes, but for what it reveals about the nature of war.
After the publication of “Shock Troops” and the indignation that followed, Beauchamp responded to the critics and stanch disbelievers that he had provided merely “one soldier’s view of events in Iraq” that were “never intended as a reflection of the entire U.S. military” (Washington Post, p. 153). If such incidents are false, clearly the author should be held accountable. However, despite where the truth stands, the writings of Beauchamp cannot be disregarded due to a question of veracity. The emotions and the sentiment that may have triggered Beauchamp to write “Shock Troops” must be considered for their valuable ability to paint the part of the personality of war. Regardless of whether or not his stories occurred, clearly the scar of war stained his thoughts with crude and harsh memories, and illuminated the horrific nature of war, and the tremendous effects it has on the minds of soldiers.
In Tim O’Brian’s book The Things They Carried, he describes the nature of war stories, stating, “it’s difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen” (p. 71). Due to the chaos of war, and the fright that it instills soldiers may be prevented from remembering the true events. However, it is this chaos that is the most important factor of a soldier’s tale, as it shows the readers and listeners the true characteristics of war, in all its violence, and in all its sorrow, while being in the midst of a pandemonium of bullets, gunshots and emotions.
All the chaos and all the sadness and all the pain and all the courage and all the love and all the beauty that embraces our world is fully released in the time of war. The words of soldiers and veterans, despite the truthfulness of the events they describe, must be regarded as testimonies of the nature of war. As a Vietnam veteran and storywriter, Tim O’Brian shows that “almost everything is true” while “almost nothing is true.” From this, we can learn that by stripping away the hard facts of the stories, there is a tender commonality between them all: war is unique. War has many characteristics from horrendous fear to amusing boredom. It is imperative that such stories are taken not for the knowledge of events, but for the sake of understanding all the personalities of war. As an objective learner, never having fought in a battle, and never having the frightening face of war stare me in the eyes, I will never fully understand the nature of such an unimaginable phenomenon. Thus, I must listen to the words of soldiers to truly learn about the nature of war. As Mr. O’Brian puts it,
War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling’ war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead (The Things They Carried, p. 80)
The indignant readers of The New Republic could not fathom that the events depicted in “Shock Troops” could possibly be real. A myriad of arguments and articles were presented refuting “Scott Thomas’” (pseudonym) descriptions of such incidents as the intentional slaughtering of dogs, gross mockery of an IED woman, and making light of a mass grave filled with the skeletons of children. Could this have really occurred? Many readers believe not, and attack Thomas’ claims by stating that the stories are “highly implausible” (The Weekly Standard). Although such actions are terribly inexcusable, it is important that these accounts are not simply dismissed for lack of authenticity, because despite the questionable facts, the sentiment behind the stories holds immense importance in understanding the harshness of war. The terror one experiences in the face of war is evident through the stories soldiers return with, and it is not merely the events that we must consider, but the words that are spoken that we must delve into and learn from, without tripping on the question of veracity.
The events described in “Shock Troops” are definitely “shocking”, but can we not pry out the emotion upon which this account rests? These stories clearly illustrate the crude destructiveness of war while illuminating the personal affects that individuals experience. By reading war books such as The Things They Carried and All Quiet on the Western Front it is clear that war is devastating, and simply because these events are not “true” does not negate the sentiments described. Many war stories conduct a sense of dismalness and the horror of war, while accompanying these images with satirical humor. It is imperative that we read such stories not as an attempt to gain knowledge of events, but to gain insight into the minds of the soldiers and the nature of war itself.
Thomas, (his actual name is Beauchamp), “recounted some grotesque incidents in his columns, including his own mocking of a woman disfigured by the war” (The New York Times). His tales are not depictions of valiant acts of courage, or boastful accounts in which he dueled with death, but events that possibly bear shame. What can we draw from the words of Beauchamp? Questioning the validity of his words is one option, but it is digging into the meaning of the events is of much greater academic value. Beauchamp’s articles show us that war has the potential to twist minds and force people to do things that seem undoable, or unthinkable.
Much of the outrage that followed Beauchamp’s article stemmed not only from the effect that such an account may have on the credibility of the United States’ military, but the effect it would have on the image of America as a whole. The incidents described in “Shock Troops” are dreadfully immoral and greatly offensive, but did such events really occur? Where the truth lies is unknown, as there is evidence supporting both arguments. Yet the answer only truly matters if the law is involved. Prosecuting those who committed such acts must be separated from prosecuting the words of the author. Beauchamp’s article must not be recognized for the incidents it describes, but for what it reveals about the nature of war.
After the publication of “Shock Troops” and the indignation that followed, Beauchamp responded to the critics and stanch disbelievers that he had provided merely “one soldier’s view of events in Iraq” that were “never intended as a reflection of the entire U.S. military” (Washington Post, p. 153). If such incidents are false, clearly the author should be held accountable. However, despite where the truth stands, the writings of Beauchamp cannot be disregarded due to a question of veracity. The emotions and the sentiment that may have triggered Beauchamp to write “Shock Troops” must be considered for their valuable ability to paint the part of the personality of war. Regardless of whether or not his stories occurred, clearly the scar of war stained his thoughts with crude and harsh memories, and illuminated the horrific nature of war, and the tremendous effects it has on the minds of soldiers.
In Tim O’Brian’s book The Things They Carried, he describes the nature of war stories, stating, “it’s difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen” (p. 71). Due to the chaos of war, and the fright that it instills soldiers may be prevented from remembering the true events. However, it is this chaos that is the most important factor of a soldier’s tale, as it shows the readers and listeners the true characteristics of war, in all its violence, and in all its sorrow, while being in the midst of a pandemonium of bullets, gunshots and emotions.
All the chaos and all the sadness and all the pain and all the courage and all the love and all the beauty that embraces our world is fully released in the time of war. The words of soldiers and veterans, despite the truthfulness of the events they describe, must be regarded as testimonies of the nature of war. As a Vietnam veteran and storywriter, Tim O’Brian shows that “almost everything is true” while “almost nothing is true.” From this, we can learn that by stripping away the hard facts of the stories, there is a tender commonality between them all: war is unique. War has many characteristics from horrendous fear to amusing boredom. It is imperative that such stories are taken not for the knowledge of events, but for the sake of understanding all the personalities of war. As an objective learner, never having fought in a battle, and never having the frightening face of war stare me in the eyes, I will never fully understand the nature of such an unimaginable phenomenon. Thus, I must listen to the words of soldiers to truly learn about the nature of war. As Mr. O’Brian puts it,
War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling’ war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead (The Things They Carried, p. 80)
Monday, May 5, 2008
My Visit to the Mosque
Walking down the driveway to the green and white painted mosque, I cautiously observed the devout worshippers of Allah; the men with their long coarse beards, and the women with their hijabs and children. I entered on the left side, the women’s side, as the men went around to the right. Slipping off my beaten up sneakers, I laid them next to all the other shoes, some tall and elegant, others flat and comfortable. I tiptoed into the worship area, taking a seat on the blue carpet.
There was a lovely decorated wall that secluded the women behind the men. Unlike in a church or synagogue, we all sat on the floor rather than on a chair or bench. We sat facing Mecca, the holiest city in the realm of Islam. This Saudi Arabian city holds such reverence because it was there that the prophet Muhammad received the revelations from God. Muhammad habitually retired to a cave to participate in private meditation, when one time he fell asleep, only to be awoken by the angel Gabriel. Gabriel commanded him to recite:
Recite! In the name of you Lord Who created.
Created man from a clot!
Recite! And your Lord is Most Bountiful-
He taught by the pen-
Taught man that which he knew not!
(Qur’an, 96:1-5)
For the remainder of his life, Muhammad continued to receive revelations, thus creating the powerful religion of Islam. Because the words of God were directly recorded and interpreted, Muslims believe that the Qur’an is perfectly and precisely the word of Allah. Unlike the bible and the Torah, which are supposedly corrupt due to men’s constant interference, the Qur’an, (written in Arabic) has not been tampered with, and thus is the exact and last deliverance of God’s will. Consequently, significant reticence has been held in translating the text into other languages, and traditionally one is to refer to printed volumes of the Qur’an as masahif (literally, “binding” or “volume”), “implying that the divine word is singular and cannot be perfectly contained in ink and paper.” Furthermore, a version that is not in Arabic is even less accurate, less perfect, and should be regarded as merely an interpretation of the literal word.
I sat there, gazing at the women with their many colored scarves, so lovingly hushing their restless children. One woman bore a full burqa that enveloped her entire body with a mere slit for sight. A younger girl wore a bright pink beaded hijab, as she played with glitter bracelets throughout the service. We, as women, could not see the imam because of the wall between us, but we could hear his deep penetrating voice on the speaker that was placed on our side. The service was delivered partly in English, and partly in Arabic. The verse that has stained my memory, with all its beauty and eloquence is Sura 81, discussing the Day of Judgment. Spectacular images are created as this momentous day is described, “the stars turn dim and scatter”, “the mountains made to move” are just a few of my favorite depictions. It was somewhat difficult to comprehend the speaker with his broken English and mixed in Arabic, but nonetheless the entirety of the service intrigued me. When the imam had finished addressing the pious worshippers, the mosque was engulfed in a hum of deep and devout prayer. Everyone lowered his or her heads to the ground, demonstrating complete submission to Allah.
In Islam, there are certain “Pillars of Faith” that one must follow, known as the shahada: prayer, fasting, alms giving, and the Hajj pilgrimage. In this essay I will elaborate only on the importance of prayer.
Muslims are required to pray five times each day. This ritual of prayer is called salat and although most followers do not strictly observe it, salat remains a central aspect of the religion. Muslims are not obligated to go to a mosque to perform their ritual prayers, but are encouraged to particularly during the midday prayer on Fridays, which is the session that I attended.
Salat prayers are performed in accordance to the travels of the sun, but “none of them are done precisely at the moment of a sun-related time (for example sunrise or sunset). This is consciously to disassociate Islam from any form of sun worship.”
As I attentively watched the women lost in midst of prayer, I began thinking back on the previous week, when a group of fellow students, including myself went to the mosque so as to be introduced to the customs with which we were to adhere. I remembered the immense warmth and welcome that I felt when I entered. There was one older man who was pleasantly plump, with a white beard that ironically reminded me of Santa Claus. He brought us cookies and tea, and constantly told us “you are very welcome here, very welcome,” in a muffled voice, coated with a strong accent. At the worship service as well everyone was remarkably friendly, and accepting. I spoke with one woman from Pakistan, who was not allowed to pray because she was menstruating, and thus considered unclean. There were people from a myriad of countries, including Egypt, Algeria, and the Philippines. It was wonderful to see such a vast range of differences enjoying and participating in this caring community. However, it was not simply the commonality of a religion that brought these people together, but the intense love that each person held for Islam. The first thing that Jameela, (the women who gave us our orientation) said to us was, “I love my religion. I love it so much I could cry.” I could feel this passion like it was a tangible fog resting in the midst of the mosque. I could feel this passion when the elderly man offered us goodies. I could feel this passion in each word that Jameela spoke, and I could feel this passion when the entire congregation lowered their faces to the ground submitting fully and completely to the greatness of Allah, the merciful and compassionate.
There was a lovely decorated wall that secluded the women behind the men. Unlike in a church or synagogue, we all sat on the floor rather than on a chair or bench. We sat facing Mecca, the holiest city in the realm of Islam. This Saudi Arabian city holds such reverence because it was there that the prophet Muhammad received the revelations from God. Muhammad habitually retired to a cave to participate in private meditation, when one time he fell asleep, only to be awoken by the angel Gabriel. Gabriel commanded him to recite:
Recite! In the name of you Lord Who created.
Created man from a clot!
Recite! And your Lord is Most Bountiful-
He taught by the pen-
Taught man that which he knew not!
(Qur’an, 96:1-5)
For the remainder of his life, Muhammad continued to receive revelations, thus creating the powerful religion of Islam. Because the words of God were directly recorded and interpreted, Muslims believe that the Qur’an is perfectly and precisely the word of Allah. Unlike the bible and the Torah, which are supposedly corrupt due to men’s constant interference, the Qur’an, (written in Arabic) has not been tampered with, and thus is the exact and last deliverance of God’s will. Consequently, significant reticence has been held in translating the text into other languages, and traditionally one is to refer to printed volumes of the Qur’an as masahif (literally, “binding” or “volume”), “implying that the divine word is singular and cannot be perfectly contained in ink and paper.” Furthermore, a version that is not in Arabic is even less accurate, less perfect, and should be regarded as merely an interpretation of the literal word.
I sat there, gazing at the women with their many colored scarves, so lovingly hushing their restless children. One woman bore a full burqa that enveloped her entire body with a mere slit for sight. A younger girl wore a bright pink beaded hijab, as she played with glitter bracelets throughout the service. We, as women, could not see the imam because of the wall between us, but we could hear his deep penetrating voice on the speaker that was placed on our side. The service was delivered partly in English, and partly in Arabic. The verse that has stained my memory, with all its beauty and eloquence is Sura 81, discussing the Day of Judgment. Spectacular images are created as this momentous day is described, “the stars turn dim and scatter”, “the mountains made to move” are just a few of my favorite depictions. It was somewhat difficult to comprehend the speaker with his broken English and mixed in Arabic, but nonetheless the entirety of the service intrigued me. When the imam had finished addressing the pious worshippers, the mosque was engulfed in a hum of deep and devout prayer. Everyone lowered his or her heads to the ground, demonstrating complete submission to Allah.
In Islam, there are certain “Pillars of Faith” that one must follow, known as the shahada: prayer, fasting, alms giving, and the Hajj pilgrimage. In this essay I will elaborate only on the importance of prayer.
Muslims are required to pray five times each day. This ritual of prayer is called salat and although most followers do not strictly observe it, salat remains a central aspect of the religion. Muslims are not obligated to go to a mosque to perform their ritual prayers, but are encouraged to particularly during the midday prayer on Fridays, which is the session that I attended.
Salat prayers are performed in accordance to the travels of the sun, but “none of them are done precisely at the moment of a sun-related time (for example sunrise or sunset). This is consciously to disassociate Islam from any form of sun worship.”
As I attentively watched the women lost in midst of prayer, I began thinking back on the previous week, when a group of fellow students, including myself went to the mosque so as to be introduced to the customs with which we were to adhere. I remembered the immense warmth and welcome that I felt when I entered. There was one older man who was pleasantly plump, with a white beard that ironically reminded me of Santa Claus. He brought us cookies and tea, and constantly told us “you are very welcome here, very welcome,” in a muffled voice, coated with a strong accent. At the worship service as well everyone was remarkably friendly, and accepting. I spoke with one woman from Pakistan, who was not allowed to pray because she was menstruating, and thus considered unclean. There were people from a myriad of countries, including Egypt, Algeria, and the Philippines. It was wonderful to see such a vast range of differences enjoying and participating in this caring community. However, it was not simply the commonality of a religion that brought these people together, but the intense love that each person held for Islam. The first thing that Jameela, (the women who gave us our orientation) said to us was, “I love my religion. I love it so much I could cry.” I could feel this passion like it was a tangible fog resting in the midst of the mosque. I could feel this passion when the elderly man offered us goodies. I could feel this passion in each word that Jameela spoke, and I could feel this passion when the entire congregation lowered their faces to the ground submitting fully and completely to the greatness of Allah, the merciful and compassionate.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Lift
I wrote this poem during my senior year of high school. It based on the book The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and Ben's experience with depression. The lines in quotes are either directly taken from the book, or the words of Ben, answering interview questions that I asked him.
Gaping with menace
The malignant abyss of depression
Trapped him at a
“Live or die crossroads”.
He slid down the rickety sides
Of a barren gorge.
His countenance carried
A “dead, black, vacant expression”.
Crawling gracelessly to the edge,
Contemplation weighing on Conscience.
Witnessing the duel
Between the guilt of his wake
And the burden of his anguish.
Decisive.
Gazing with somber eyes
And pensive mind
Grieving in the climate of his
Thoughts:
“So crazy are the storms,
Tormenting, sad…wild.”
Sliding to the brim
Of the sloshing waters,
His heart droned
An unfamiliar rhythm
“I am, I am, I am”.
Slowly, light pierced
His dusk.
A beam of elevation
Lifting the weighty “bell jar”-
Freedom from madness.
His content now
Illuminated.
Gaping with menace
The malignant abyss of depression
Trapped him at a
“Live or die crossroads”.
He slid down the rickety sides
Of a barren gorge.
His countenance carried
A “dead, black, vacant expression”.
Crawling gracelessly to the edge,
Contemplation weighing on Conscience.
Witnessing the duel
Between the guilt of his wake
And the burden of his anguish.
Decisive.
Gazing with somber eyes
And pensive mind
Grieving in the climate of his
Thoughts:
“So crazy are the storms,
Tormenting, sad…wild.”
Sliding to the brim
Of the sloshing waters,
His heart droned
An unfamiliar rhythm
“I am, I am, I am”.
Slowly, light pierced
His dusk.
A beam of elevation
Lifting the weighty “bell jar”-
Freedom from madness.
His content now
Illuminated.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
His wishes
A beautiful set he wished
for the sun.
To trickle below
the blessed blue blanket.
To radiate the
Twilight
With a fierce and gentle
Wake.
A grand duel he wished
For the sun.
To permeate the heavens with
Magical knights of
Crimson and
Gold,
Gracefully charging the
Moon's royal court.
With glowing grandeur
And mystical might
She so sweeps across the
Brightly blazing
Battlefield,
Riding a chariot of
Winged radiance.
In a gleam of defiance
Flaming spears
Pierce the
Advancing darkness,
Clashing in a burst of
splendid grace,
Splashing turquoise strife
Across the gaping
Dome of dusk.
With an absent alliance the
Wise waters watched,
Ebbing with apathy
And sighing with a sagacious
Solace...
The once dominating
Colors of the sun's valiant
Army,
Soon dwindled in
Friendly retreat.
The clouds of twilight
Took off the dress of dusk,
Replacing shy lavender with
Fierce and penetrating indigo.
The moon ascended higher,
Reaching her throne amidst
Her faithful soldiers,
Guarding their Queen in
gleaming armor of
Sheer silvery jewels.
A shining victory he wished
for the Moon.
To reign with
Valor
In fullness and
Purity,
In a glowing
Peace,
Basking her
Kingdom in radiant
Harmony.
for the sun.
To trickle below
the blessed blue blanket.
To radiate the
Twilight
With a fierce and gentle
Wake.
A grand duel he wished
For the sun.
To permeate the heavens with
Magical knights of
Crimson and
Gold,
Gracefully charging the
Moon's royal court.
With glowing grandeur
And mystical might
She so sweeps across the
Brightly blazing
Battlefield,
Riding a chariot of
Winged radiance.
In a gleam of defiance
Flaming spears
Pierce the
Advancing darkness,
Clashing in a burst of
splendid grace,
Splashing turquoise strife
Across the gaping
Dome of dusk.
With an absent alliance the
Wise waters watched,
Ebbing with apathy
And sighing with a sagacious
Solace...
The once dominating
Colors of the sun's valiant
Army,
Soon dwindled in
Friendly retreat.
The clouds of twilight
Took off the dress of dusk,
Replacing shy lavender with
Fierce and penetrating indigo.
The moon ascended higher,
Reaching her throne amidst
Her faithful soldiers,
Guarding their Queen in
gleaming armor of
Sheer silvery jewels.
A shining victory he wished
for the Moon.
To reign with
Valor
In fullness and
Purity,
In a glowing
Peace,
Basking her
Kingdom in radiant
Harmony.
Monday, February 4, 2008
The Therapist
The Therapist
My name is Mel. Short for Melody. I am a therapist, and every morning, as I drive my eight-year-old daughter to school, I muse over the different lives and situations of two of my clients. Dylan is twenty-seven, and is sent to me by his mother, whom he lives with. Ever since he graduated college, with a degree in Spanish, he decided that that was enough, and he doesn’t feel like doing anything else with his life. Then there is Lisa. She is a Peace Corps graduate, and currently teaches English at an inner-city junior high school. Sadly, dissatisfaction permeates her very existence. To both Lisa and Dylan, I offer blatantly different advice. I believe it is more important that each of us gives to the world, that we donate skills and productivity. Dylan refuses to utilize his skills in a productive manner, because it will not offer him personal satisfaction. However, personal satisfaction does not hold the highest value. We must base our life’s meaning on what we contribute to our surroundings, not merely on our own reaction to our existence. This is not to say that happiness holds little value, because personal satisfaction has the potential to lead to greater accomplishments. I am merely claiming that more importance rests in the hands of the impression we leave behind.
It is 8:30 am, and time for Dylan’s appointment. If it were his choosing, he would not meet with me until the afternoon, so he could sleep in and get those unworthy ten hours of sleep. Unfortunately, his mother, Carol, has to drive him, since his license was revoked due to a recent DUI he received. Considering his mother must be at work at nine, his appointment is scheduled for the morning.
As I talk with Dylan, he sits across from me on a floral print couch, gazing with a bored and uninterested stare. I ask him what his plans are for the week.
“You know, the usual. I’ll probably play this new video game that I bought, then maybe go out with my friends, I don’t know.”
I thought to myself, okay, time for the harder questions. “Dylan, if you could live the rest of your life, exactly how it is now, without having to work or contribute anything to your surroundings, would you do so?” His eyes slowly lifted to meet mine, as a pensive glow swept across his face, for a gleaming moment of ephemeral contemplation. He then responded with a confident, solid, “Yes”.
I was somewhat surprised. “But your life consists of playing video games, and spending time with your friends. Do you feel that your life is meaningful?”
Dylan is a well-educated young man, and at times his intelligence really sparkles.
“Right now, I have a college degree in Spanish, I have a very worldly realm of knowledge, and I feel like I have reached the pinnacle of what I hope to achieve.” I was happy to see that his interest in our session escalated. He continued, “I am very happy with my life, and honestly, why should I change if I’m content?” I pondered for a couple moments over this rather insightful question. I replied “Well, I feel that it’s not enough to simply live our life in a way that benefits only our self. Despite the amount of happiness derived from each individual life, the actions of that person are what give that life meaning, not the feelings.” He shrugged apathetically, so I went on. “Dylan, your mother works full-time, pays all the bills, volunteers at the her church, and yet you decided to sit on the sofa and watch T.V, rather than get a job and contribute. You really think your life is meaningful?”
“Yes, my mother chooses to do all of those things you mentioned. She could retire, and then neither of us would have to work. But she loves her job; it makes her happy. She has never pressured me to pursue a career because there is enough family wealth that that would be unnecessary. So, if I’m happy right now, why should I change?”
As I drove home later that day, I thought about Dylan’s session. His life, at this current stage, differs little from that of Albert Camus’ Sisyphus. Every morning, he wakes up, and wastes his day doing activities that will accomplish nothing, and donate not an ounce of meaningfulness to his existence. Yet he is happy with his life, knowing he will become nothing more than who he is now. However, it is not happiness that ensures meaning, but rather it is one’s actions. The resulting feeling is almost entirely unrelated to the degree of meaning in one’s life. The philosopher Richard Taylor claimed that if Sisyphus had a “keen and unappeasable desire to be doing just what he found himself doing, then, although his life would in no way be changed, it would nevertheless have a meaning for him” (Taylor, “The Meaning of Life”, Life, Death, and Meaning, p.26). However, this meaning is less valuable, than that of another person, of equal contentedness, who works in an orphanage in Africa. Each individual may react in an identical fashion to their actions and their life, but it is these actions that determine the amount of meaningfulness within each person’s existence.
However, I am not claiming that we must all sacrifice our happiness, and move to a third world country to teach AIDS awareness. I am stating rather that if it is within our ability to help less fortunate people without ourselves having to suffer or sacrifice an equal amount, then it is our duty to participate in the quelling of other’s misfortunes. In his piece titled “Famine, Affluence, and Morality”, Peter Singer claims that if it is within our power to prevent something bad from happening without sacrificing anything of comparable importance, we ought morally to do it. It is our moral duty to help others. Dylan has a degree in Spanish, thus he has the ability and potential to volunteer, or teach, or find a meaningful job in which he contributes to society. Instead, he fulfills only his own needs and desires, and chooses to become someone who donates nearly nothing to the world in which he lives. This is morally selfish. He is wasting his potential to help others, to improve his surroundings, and he chooses to deprive those in need of his skills.
Readers, once again, I beg of you not to gather that I believe everyone needs to be morally perfect, and help others all the time. With Dylan’s background, it is not imperative that he gets a job helping others. It is merely imperative that he gets a job that contributes one way or another to the world, and as of now, that is not the case. For those of us who are able to donate money to tsunami victims, or to stopping the genocide in Darfur, it is important that we do what we can. However, our own lives are of equal importance, and as long as we are contributing to society, and not wasting our potential, we are living, in that particular sense, a moral life. Thus, a moral life is synonymous with a meaningful life.
Some may argue, however, that this reasoning is completely skewed. For example, despite the meaninglessness in Dylan’s life, it is possible to claim that he is not in fact immoral. Dylan is not a murderer, a robber, or a rapist, and he does not in any way invoke harm onto others. However, the action of not invoking harm isn’t what makes us moral, it is the lethargic existence of not invoking good that makes us immoral. We must not measure our morality on the actions from which we refrain, but rather what we are willing to do and contribute to society. Dylan does not donate his skills in any way, and it is this that makes his life meaningless, and immoral.
Driving past the mall, I notice the teens and the pre-teens strutting with an all-knowing glow toward the line to buy tickets for a movie. I silently smirk to myself, thinking how wonderful it was to be young; not having to contemplate on the degree of morality by which we live our lives, or worry about the victims of Katrina, or the child soldiers in Uganda. Only with young age comes an excusable worldly blindness. Once we reach the age that provides us with the capability of knowing and caring about world issues, it is our duty to act in ways where this knowledge and passion are exemplified.
I noticed that The Matrix was playing. This brings me to Nozick’s experience machine, that operates in a way that once one is plugged in, the participant will experience anything he desires. However, these experiences are mere illusions, created by “super duper neuropsychologists” (Nozick, Ethics, p. 228) who lead your brain into believing and feeling like you are truly immersed and active in whatever experience you wish to have. “Would you plug in? What else can matter to us, other than how are lives feel from the inside?” (Nozick, Ethics, p.228).
Life is about so much more than simply how we react to our own existence. One who chooses to live life in an experience machine chooses to completely isolate himself, and contribute nothing to the rest of the world. Although the machine may produce the sensation of accomplishment and contribution, the fact that it is an illusion, and nothing tangible and productive results illustrates the sheer selfishness of the participant. He is the only one benefiting form his existence.
It is Friday afternoon, and I can feel the weekend dangling in front of me like a piñata. Every time I reach for it, it’s pulled high above me; but once it’s hit, it’s definitely worth the wait. Five o’clock approaches, and I hear the bell on the doorknob clang as Lisa hurriedly walks in. I smiled warmly at her to take a seat on the floral sofa.
“How are you this week Lisa?”
“I’m doing alright. My students performed a King Arthur play last weekend, which went really well. Oh, and since it’s the holidays I volunteered at the soup kitchen, and on Christmas eve we will be putting on a feast for the homeless.”
Again, I smiled. “And how is Lisa. I see that you are doing well, as in acting well, but how is your mind? How are you feeling?”
“Well, I feel like I am living in a mascot costume, to be perfectly honest. Everyday I wear a big smile plastered across my face as I try to make everyone happy, but once I am home and strip down to nakedness, I feel lonely and unsatisfied.”
“That is a problem. Lisa, you must recognize that you are living a life with so much meaning and value. You are important to so many people, and you have touched the lives of countless strangers with your volunteer work and generous heart. It is time you realize that who you are deserves happiness.”
Lisa blinked as she stared at the floor. “I just don’t think that what I am doing everyday is what I really want. I know that it is meaningful and valuable, but I want to find a new meaning.”
“Then perhaps you ought to find a new career path.” I said this, knowing it would terrify her to pieces, because starting new is so frightening. I told her the words of a philosopher I once read by the name of David Schmidtz: “What you really want is a purpose you can embrace as your own, but also one that will be recognizable as a real purpose independently of the fact that you embraced it as such” (David Schmidtz, “The Meaning of Life”, Life Death and Meaning, p. 94). What truly gives life meaning must come from your actions, but in order to reach ultimate satisfaction, your reaction must as well be content.
“If you do not wish to start anew, I suggest finding hobbies that give you enjoyment. While it is important that you continue living in such a giving way, it is now time that you find internal satisfaction. You are already leading an existence full of generosity as you constantly contribute to the lives of those around you, but now you must fulfill your own needs, since you have already fulfilled the needs of others.”
Life’s meaning is derived from what we contribute to the world and the impression we leave on those we encountered. Memories are the sole possessors of possible immortality, and to create meaning in our life, we must use the assistance of them by leaving an impact that will be remembered by those we meet, and passed on to those we miss. One cannot leave this impression through isolation of existence, and despite the contentedness one may discover within oneself, it is actions and the tangible imprint left behind that truly give life meaning. Internal satisfaction is valuable as well, and it is the combination of both that brings the ultimate meaningfulness.
My name is Mel. Short for Melody. I am a therapist, and every morning, as I drive my eight-year-old daughter to school, I muse over the different lives and situations of two of my clients. Dylan is twenty-seven, and is sent to me by his mother, whom he lives with. Ever since he graduated college, with a degree in Spanish, he decided that that was enough, and he doesn’t feel like doing anything else with his life. Then there is Lisa. She is a Peace Corps graduate, and currently teaches English at an inner-city junior high school. Sadly, dissatisfaction permeates her very existence. To both Lisa and Dylan, I offer blatantly different advice. I believe it is more important that each of us gives to the world, that we donate skills and productivity. Dylan refuses to utilize his skills in a productive manner, because it will not offer him personal satisfaction. However, personal satisfaction does not hold the highest value. We must base our life’s meaning on what we contribute to our surroundings, not merely on our own reaction to our existence. This is not to say that happiness holds little value, because personal satisfaction has the potential to lead to greater accomplishments. I am merely claiming that more importance rests in the hands of the impression we leave behind.
It is 8:30 am, and time for Dylan’s appointment. If it were his choosing, he would not meet with me until the afternoon, so he could sleep in and get those unworthy ten hours of sleep. Unfortunately, his mother, Carol, has to drive him, since his license was revoked due to a recent DUI he received. Considering his mother must be at work at nine, his appointment is scheduled for the morning.
As I talk with Dylan, he sits across from me on a floral print couch, gazing with a bored and uninterested stare. I ask him what his plans are for the week.
“You know, the usual. I’ll probably play this new video game that I bought, then maybe go out with my friends, I don’t know.”
I thought to myself, okay, time for the harder questions. “Dylan, if you could live the rest of your life, exactly how it is now, without having to work or contribute anything to your surroundings, would you do so?” His eyes slowly lifted to meet mine, as a pensive glow swept across his face, for a gleaming moment of ephemeral contemplation. He then responded with a confident, solid, “Yes”.
I was somewhat surprised. “But your life consists of playing video games, and spending time with your friends. Do you feel that your life is meaningful?”
Dylan is a well-educated young man, and at times his intelligence really sparkles.
“Right now, I have a college degree in Spanish, I have a very worldly realm of knowledge, and I feel like I have reached the pinnacle of what I hope to achieve.” I was happy to see that his interest in our session escalated. He continued, “I am very happy with my life, and honestly, why should I change if I’m content?” I pondered for a couple moments over this rather insightful question. I replied “Well, I feel that it’s not enough to simply live our life in a way that benefits only our self. Despite the amount of happiness derived from each individual life, the actions of that person are what give that life meaning, not the feelings.” He shrugged apathetically, so I went on. “Dylan, your mother works full-time, pays all the bills, volunteers at the her church, and yet you decided to sit on the sofa and watch T.V, rather than get a job and contribute. You really think your life is meaningful?”
“Yes, my mother chooses to do all of those things you mentioned. She could retire, and then neither of us would have to work. But she loves her job; it makes her happy. She has never pressured me to pursue a career because there is enough family wealth that that would be unnecessary. So, if I’m happy right now, why should I change?”
As I drove home later that day, I thought about Dylan’s session. His life, at this current stage, differs little from that of Albert Camus’ Sisyphus. Every morning, he wakes up, and wastes his day doing activities that will accomplish nothing, and donate not an ounce of meaningfulness to his existence. Yet he is happy with his life, knowing he will become nothing more than who he is now. However, it is not happiness that ensures meaning, but rather it is one’s actions. The resulting feeling is almost entirely unrelated to the degree of meaning in one’s life. The philosopher Richard Taylor claimed that if Sisyphus had a “keen and unappeasable desire to be doing just what he found himself doing, then, although his life would in no way be changed, it would nevertheless have a meaning for him” (Taylor, “The Meaning of Life”, Life, Death, and Meaning, p.26). However, this meaning is less valuable, than that of another person, of equal contentedness, who works in an orphanage in Africa. Each individual may react in an identical fashion to their actions and their life, but it is these actions that determine the amount of meaningfulness within each person’s existence.
However, I am not claiming that we must all sacrifice our happiness, and move to a third world country to teach AIDS awareness. I am stating rather that if it is within our ability to help less fortunate people without ourselves having to suffer or sacrifice an equal amount, then it is our duty to participate in the quelling of other’s misfortunes. In his piece titled “Famine, Affluence, and Morality”, Peter Singer claims that if it is within our power to prevent something bad from happening without sacrificing anything of comparable importance, we ought morally to do it. It is our moral duty to help others. Dylan has a degree in Spanish, thus he has the ability and potential to volunteer, or teach, or find a meaningful job in which he contributes to society. Instead, he fulfills only his own needs and desires, and chooses to become someone who donates nearly nothing to the world in which he lives. This is morally selfish. He is wasting his potential to help others, to improve his surroundings, and he chooses to deprive those in need of his skills.
Readers, once again, I beg of you not to gather that I believe everyone needs to be morally perfect, and help others all the time. With Dylan’s background, it is not imperative that he gets a job helping others. It is merely imperative that he gets a job that contributes one way or another to the world, and as of now, that is not the case. For those of us who are able to donate money to tsunami victims, or to stopping the genocide in Darfur, it is important that we do what we can. However, our own lives are of equal importance, and as long as we are contributing to society, and not wasting our potential, we are living, in that particular sense, a moral life. Thus, a moral life is synonymous with a meaningful life.
Some may argue, however, that this reasoning is completely skewed. For example, despite the meaninglessness in Dylan’s life, it is possible to claim that he is not in fact immoral. Dylan is not a murderer, a robber, or a rapist, and he does not in any way invoke harm onto others. However, the action of not invoking harm isn’t what makes us moral, it is the lethargic existence of not invoking good that makes us immoral. We must not measure our morality on the actions from which we refrain, but rather what we are willing to do and contribute to society. Dylan does not donate his skills in any way, and it is this that makes his life meaningless, and immoral.
Driving past the mall, I notice the teens and the pre-teens strutting with an all-knowing glow toward the line to buy tickets for a movie. I silently smirk to myself, thinking how wonderful it was to be young; not having to contemplate on the degree of morality by which we live our lives, or worry about the victims of Katrina, or the child soldiers in Uganda. Only with young age comes an excusable worldly blindness. Once we reach the age that provides us with the capability of knowing and caring about world issues, it is our duty to act in ways where this knowledge and passion are exemplified.
I noticed that The Matrix was playing. This brings me to Nozick’s experience machine, that operates in a way that once one is plugged in, the participant will experience anything he desires. However, these experiences are mere illusions, created by “super duper neuropsychologists” (Nozick, Ethics, p. 228) who lead your brain into believing and feeling like you are truly immersed and active in whatever experience you wish to have. “Would you plug in? What else can matter to us, other than how are lives feel from the inside?” (Nozick, Ethics, p.228).
Life is about so much more than simply how we react to our own existence. One who chooses to live life in an experience machine chooses to completely isolate himself, and contribute nothing to the rest of the world. Although the machine may produce the sensation of accomplishment and contribution, the fact that it is an illusion, and nothing tangible and productive results illustrates the sheer selfishness of the participant. He is the only one benefiting form his existence.
It is Friday afternoon, and I can feel the weekend dangling in front of me like a piñata. Every time I reach for it, it’s pulled high above me; but once it’s hit, it’s definitely worth the wait. Five o’clock approaches, and I hear the bell on the doorknob clang as Lisa hurriedly walks in. I smiled warmly at her to take a seat on the floral sofa.
“How are you this week Lisa?”
“I’m doing alright. My students performed a King Arthur play last weekend, which went really well. Oh, and since it’s the holidays I volunteered at the soup kitchen, and on Christmas eve we will be putting on a feast for the homeless.”
Again, I smiled. “And how is Lisa. I see that you are doing well, as in acting well, but how is your mind? How are you feeling?”
“Well, I feel like I am living in a mascot costume, to be perfectly honest. Everyday I wear a big smile plastered across my face as I try to make everyone happy, but once I am home and strip down to nakedness, I feel lonely and unsatisfied.”
“That is a problem. Lisa, you must recognize that you are living a life with so much meaning and value. You are important to so many people, and you have touched the lives of countless strangers with your volunteer work and generous heart. It is time you realize that who you are deserves happiness.”
Lisa blinked as she stared at the floor. “I just don’t think that what I am doing everyday is what I really want. I know that it is meaningful and valuable, but I want to find a new meaning.”
“Then perhaps you ought to find a new career path.” I said this, knowing it would terrify her to pieces, because starting new is so frightening. I told her the words of a philosopher I once read by the name of David Schmidtz: “What you really want is a purpose you can embrace as your own, but also one that will be recognizable as a real purpose independently of the fact that you embraced it as such” (David Schmidtz, “The Meaning of Life”, Life Death and Meaning, p. 94). What truly gives life meaning must come from your actions, but in order to reach ultimate satisfaction, your reaction must as well be content.
“If you do not wish to start anew, I suggest finding hobbies that give you enjoyment. While it is important that you continue living in such a giving way, it is now time that you find internal satisfaction. You are already leading an existence full of generosity as you constantly contribute to the lives of those around you, but now you must fulfill your own needs, since you have already fulfilled the needs of others.”
Life’s meaning is derived from what we contribute to the world and the impression we leave on those we encountered. Memories are the sole possessors of possible immortality, and to create meaning in our life, we must use the assistance of them by leaving an impact that will be remembered by those we meet, and passed on to those we miss. One cannot leave this impression through isolation of existence, and despite the contentedness one may discover within oneself, it is actions and the tangible imprint left behind that truly give life meaning. Internal satisfaction is valuable as well, and it is the combination of both that brings the ultimate meaningfulness.
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