I have been reading What Should I Do With My Life? by Po Bronson. It is a series of stories of different people's career paths, people whose paths were not a straight line. It's the kind of book that is good to read just a little at a time, because each story has its own pearl of wisdom, and you need time to digest each one. I just read a few from the beginning of the third section. (There are 8 sections total.) The section starts off with Bronson telling about a particular time in his life. For the past 5 years, he had been working toward an MFA and trying to get his short stories published. One day, he wrote a story that was very different from the stories he usually wrote. It was not about the things serious writers were supposed to write about, but was written from his experience. For years, writing had been laborious. This story flowed quickly from him and was fun to write. He decided he wanted to make it into a novel. Everyone whose opinion he respected told him that this was not the right direction, that his other stories were better. However, it was what he wanted to do, and he pursued it. He got a new agent, finished writing the novel much sooner than he expected, and got it published. It became an international bestseller.
But does it always happen that way? What if the people who gave him advice had been right? Isn't it the case that sometimes the thing that you want to do is not something that anyone else will be interested in paying for?
And is there anything that I love doing the way he loved that kind of writing?
Of the question that is the title of the book, he writes, "Asking the question aspires to end the conflict between who you are and what you do. Answering the question is the way to protect yourself from being lathed into someone you're not."
There's also the story of a young man named Anthony. When he graduated from college, he thought he'd like to be a teacher, but he had a contact in the British Foreign Office, and he chose to take the more prestigious job there, thinking he could always do teaching later. When he was 30, he got sick. Of his illness, Bronson wrote, "His doctor diagnosed him with the Epstein-Barr virus....not a virus that wins the patient much sympathy. It stays dormant in the blood forever, occasionally reactivating in times of stress." This part of course interested me, because it's the same thing that I may have.
Anthony's college friend and his father had both died, so he had experienced the fact that lives can end unexpectedly. While he was sick, the question that he asked himself was, "If I were to make an early exit from this world, what will I feel worst about not getting done?" For him, the answer was to go home to Britain and become a teacher at a school attended by children from low income families. What would my answer be? The first thing would be spending more time with my family. Other things would be compiling the family history information I have, meeting some of the distant relatives whom I don't know (mainly the descendents of Philip Bailey), visiting the places my ancestors lived in Maine, and spending more time outside.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Hope
On the way to and from work, I walk past the hydrangeas. At this time of year, the green leaves are growing, but there are no flowers. As I see how the leaves have been growing, it makes me happy, because I know flowers on the way. Sometimes the anticipation of something brings happiness as much as the thing itself.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Parker Palmer interview
In an interview with Chel Avery, Parker Palmer says, "no matter what punishments come down on you for living out your own identity and integrity, and punishments do come, you have to understand eventually that no punishment could be worse than the punishment you lay on yourself by conspiring in your own diminishment." He also describes Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet as saying, "Keep asking your questions but don't expect to get answers to them. Because the questions are too big. Live those questions. The point is to live everything, and one distant day without even knowing it, you may find that you've lived your way into an answer."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Fly By Night by Frances Hardinge
I recently read Fly By Night by Frances Hardinge. It did not capture my attention as grippingly as other books I have liked, but I liked the imaginative writing style and the philosophical conclusions.
It is like a fantasy novel without any swords, magic, or dragons, and with royalty only as secondary characters. I think I like it better that way. I think I like fantasy novels for their characters and ideas, and I see the swords, magic, dragons, and princes and princesses as unnecessary. I liked the Tamora Pierce books about Aly and about Beka, both of whom mostly rely on their brains, better than the ones about Alanna and Kel, who are warriors, or Daine, who is a magician. I do like the books about Sandry, Daja, Briar, and Tris best of all. They do use magic, but it's a naturalistic sort of magic which to me is about finding spirituality in everyday tasks.
You can see Hardinge's imaginative writing style on the first page, where she writes, "Her eyes were pale, soft and moist, like skinned grapes, but at the moment they were stubborn, resolute grapes," and in character names such as Eponymous, Kohlrabi, and Caveat.
It's about shifting alliances, figuring who to trust and which side to be on, figuring out which stories are lies and which are truth. It's about freedom of information and thought. In this story, words have the power to transform a person's destiny.
In the end, Mosca decides that she believes in neither the dominant religion of the Beloved, nor the underground religion of the Heart of Consequences. Clent says, "I foresee frightful things when you are old enough to work your will on the world. Cathedrals torn down, mention of both the Consequence and the Beloved banned from the common speech, and children brought up to believe in an empty, soulless heaven." When she says that is not what she would do, Clent asks, "Not even in the service of truth?" and Mosca replies, "That's not serving truth!....if I told people what to believe, they'd stop thinking. And then they'd be easier to lie to. And...what if I was wrong?" When Clent asks her who should decide what is true, Mosca replies, "Nobody. Everybody....Everybody able to stand up and shout what they think, all at once. An' not just the men of letters, an' the lords in their full-bottomed wigs, but the street sellers, an' the porters, an' the bakers. An' not just the clever men, but the muddle-headed, an' the madmen, an' the criminals, an' the children in their infant gowns, an' the really, really stupid. All of 'em. Even the wicked..."
Clent says that would be chaos, and Mosca thinks, "Words were dangerous when loosed. They were more powerful than cannon and more unpredictable than storms. They could turn men's heads inside out and warp their destinies. They could pick up kingdoms and shake them until they rattled. And this was a good thing, a wonderful thing."
It's a lesson that we need to be reminded of often. Even in a country where freedom of expression is a fundamental value, people often seek to suppress views which they consider dangerous.
It is like a fantasy novel without any swords, magic, or dragons, and with royalty only as secondary characters. I think I like it better that way. I think I like fantasy novels for their characters and ideas, and I see the swords, magic, dragons, and princes and princesses as unnecessary. I liked the Tamora Pierce books about Aly and about Beka, both of whom mostly rely on their brains, better than the ones about Alanna and Kel, who are warriors, or Daine, who is a magician. I do like the books about Sandry, Daja, Briar, and Tris best of all. They do use magic, but it's a naturalistic sort of magic which to me is about finding spirituality in everyday tasks.
You can see Hardinge's imaginative writing style on the first page, where she writes, "Her eyes were pale, soft and moist, like skinned grapes, but at the moment they were stubborn, resolute grapes," and in character names such as Eponymous, Kohlrabi, and Caveat.
It's about shifting alliances, figuring who to trust and which side to be on, figuring out which stories are lies and which are truth. It's about freedom of information and thought. In this story, words have the power to transform a person's destiny.
In the end, Mosca decides that she believes in neither the dominant religion of the Beloved, nor the underground religion of the Heart of Consequences. Clent says, "I foresee frightful things when you are old enough to work your will on the world. Cathedrals torn down, mention of both the Consequence and the Beloved banned from the common speech, and children brought up to believe in an empty, soulless heaven." When she says that is not what she would do, Clent asks, "Not even in the service of truth?" and Mosca replies, "That's not serving truth!....if I told people what to believe, they'd stop thinking. And then they'd be easier to lie to. And...what if I was wrong?" When Clent asks her who should decide what is true, Mosca replies, "Nobody. Everybody....Everybody able to stand up and shout what they think, all at once. An' not just the men of letters, an' the lords in their full-bottomed wigs, but the street sellers, an' the porters, an' the bakers. An' not just the clever men, but the muddle-headed, an' the madmen, an' the criminals, an' the children in their infant gowns, an' the really, really stupid. All of 'em. Even the wicked..."
Clent says that would be chaos, and Mosca thinks, "Words were dangerous when loosed. They were more powerful than cannon and more unpredictable than storms. They could turn men's heads inside out and warp their destinies. They could pick up kingdoms and shake them until they rattled. And this was a good thing, a wonderful thing."
It's a lesson that we need to be reminded of often. Even in a country where freedom of expression is a fundamental value, people often seek to suppress views which they consider dangerous.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Comedy
School was a tedious chore, and then I went to college and I was like, "Wow, why didn't anyone ever tell me that school could be interesting?!" So it was when I watched Fierce Creatures and I was like, "Wow, why didn't anyone tell me that comedy could be funny?!" It was suggested at the time that perhaps I preferred British humor and would also like Monty Python, but I think Monty Python is even worse than that stuff that Americans call comedy. There have however been two other things that were funny, one Italian and one American: the first part of Life is Beautiful and Boston Legal. Those were the most significant ones, but there have been snippets of humor elsewhere, such as in High Fidelity and Moonstruck.
Tonight I was changing channels on the TV and thinking I really should go to bed but I'm too tired to get up when I came across The Vicar of Dibley. That gave me the same reaction as Fierce Creatures. I was laughing and delighted, and amazed that comedy was actually funny for a change.
Tonight I was changing channels on the TV and thinking I really should go to bed but I'm too tired to get up when I came across The Vicar of Dibley. That gave me the same reaction as Fierce Creatures. I was laughing and delighted, and amazed that comedy was actually funny for a change.
Philip Pullman's Sally Lockhart books
Philip Pullman's first two Sally Lockhart books, The Ruby in the Smoke and The Shadow in the North, were engaging stories, but they did not have substance. They were the kind of books that successfully held my attention, but did not have a lasting impact.
The third book, The Tiger in the Well, had so much more substance. It brought to life some issues of the day, such as poverty and anti-immigrant sentiment. It was good to see history from that perspective, the texture of life for the underclass, rather than just hearing about kings and wars and treaties. Reading about the issues was also important because those issues are still relevant today.
Another big improvement was that in the final confrontation, the good guys (Sally in one scene and Dan in another) showed compassion for their enemies. I don't like books where the bad guys are just evil. I like books that show that we are all just human, and that show why the bad guys do what they do. The scene in which Dan quelled mob violence by understanding the humanity of those who would attack him was to me one of the most important parts of the book.
After reading the fourth book in the series, The Tin Princess, at first I thought that it was another engaging story, and that it lacked both substance and a satisfying ending. But then as I thought about it, I began to see the substance in the ending. Often in stories, including all four Sally Lockhart books, the good guys win when the bad guys meet their demise. Sometimes that demise comes as a result of violent action on the part of the good guys. The problem with this is that when a person uses violence to achieve their goals, it's hard to believe that they are truly good guys. In order to get around this problem, often what happens is there is a confrontation that comes about as a result of the evil of the bad guys, but somehow in the confrontation, the bad guy ends up dying, though not at the hands of the good guy. For example, in attacking the good guy, the bad guy ends up falling off a cliff. This device is over-used, and I think it's kind of dumb. It says violence is the only resolution, but we don't want to sully the good guy's hands. In such cases, the author seems unable to imagine any resolution other than violence. That's why Dan's quelling the mob in The Tiger in the Well was so important, because it was a true nonviolent resolution.
In The Tin Princess, there are some battles which the good guys win through either violence or through the over-used device of accidental demise in confrontation. They win some battles, but they lose the war. The reason they lose the war is because the violence of the bad guys is mightier than the violence of the good guys. That happens sometimes in life. But the point that the book makes is that although that happens sometimes, it's not the end of the world. The book closes with the hope that both the big picture political situation and the lives of the individuals will move forward to a brighter situation. As Sally says, "Life's not static, you see, Becky. Life's dynamic. Everything changes. That's the beauty of it" (p. 286).
We see a metaphor for this in Sally's reaction to learning that the sweater she put so much time into knitting had been unraveled. Jim unraveled it to use it for their survival. "When she'd heard what Jim had done with the jersey she'd knitted, she laughed with pure happiness, as if there were no final dark, as if the whole universe were a joyful play of light" (p. 286). Sometimes violence wins, and destroys the things we were trying to create, but even when the things we were trying to create are unraveled, we can create new things out of what remains. That is the final message of The Tin Princess.
The third book, The Tiger in the Well, had so much more substance. It brought to life some issues of the day, such as poverty and anti-immigrant sentiment. It was good to see history from that perspective, the texture of life for the underclass, rather than just hearing about kings and wars and treaties. Reading about the issues was also important because those issues are still relevant today.
Another big improvement was that in the final confrontation, the good guys (Sally in one scene and Dan in another) showed compassion for their enemies. I don't like books where the bad guys are just evil. I like books that show that we are all just human, and that show why the bad guys do what they do. The scene in which Dan quelled mob violence by understanding the humanity of those who would attack him was to me one of the most important parts of the book.
After reading the fourth book in the series, The Tin Princess, at first I thought that it was another engaging story, and that it lacked both substance and a satisfying ending. But then as I thought about it, I began to see the substance in the ending. Often in stories, including all four Sally Lockhart books, the good guys win when the bad guys meet their demise. Sometimes that demise comes as a result of violent action on the part of the good guys. The problem with this is that when a person uses violence to achieve their goals, it's hard to believe that they are truly good guys. In order to get around this problem, often what happens is there is a confrontation that comes about as a result of the evil of the bad guys, but somehow in the confrontation, the bad guy ends up dying, though not at the hands of the good guy. For example, in attacking the good guy, the bad guy ends up falling off a cliff. This device is over-used, and I think it's kind of dumb. It says violence is the only resolution, but we don't want to sully the good guy's hands. In such cases, the author seems unable to imagine any resolution other than violence. That's why Dan's quelling the mob in The Tiger in the Well was so important, because it was a true nonviolent resolution.
In The Tin Princess, there are some battles which the good guys win through either violence or through the over-used device of accidental demise in confrontation. They win some battles, but they lose the war. The reason they lose the war is because the violence of the bad guys is mightier than the violence of the good guys. That happens sometimes in life. But the point that the book makes is that although that happens sometimes, it's not the end of the world. The book closes with the hope that both the big picture political situation and the lives of the individuals will move forward to a brighter situation. As Sally says, "Life's not static, you see, Becky. Life's dynamic. Everything changes. That's the beauty of it" (p. 286).
We see a metaphor for this in Sally's reaction to learning that the sweater she put so much time into knitting had been unraveled. Jim unraveled it to use it for their survival. "When she'd heard what Jim had done with the jersey she'd knitted, she laughed with pure happiness, as if there were no final dark, as if the whole universe were a joyful play of light" (p. 286). Sometimes violence wins, and destroys the things we were trying to create, but even when the things we were trying to create are unraveled, we can create new things out of what remains. That is the final message of The Tin Princess.
Monday, April 13, 2009
There's a Light
My Nia teacher is nice, but I just feel like a lump around her. I don't interact with her. I mean, if we talk, I'm just going through the motions. I'm not really present. I'm just a zombie moving through life. I was there in Nia class thinking what is it with me, and it occurred to me that I felt like the light was turned out, like there was no life behind my eyes.
The next day, the light turned on. It was being with a particular individual that turned it on. He often tells me that I look radiant, and I believe him, because I feel radiant around him. Being around him is like having a ball of sunshine drop into my lap. The rest of my life is gray and cold. But I don't know what to do with this. It seems there should be a way to put more sunshine into my life. But where do I find it? Sure I know one person who turns on the light, but it's not about that one person. It's not like bringing that person more into my life is is what I need. What I have with this person is beautiful as it is, and is not meant to be more. Instead it's a matter of what are the attributes of our interactions that bring me sunshine, and how can I put into my life more things that have those attributes.
Other people have brought my sunshine in the past. What did all these cases have in common? It was mostly men, though not men who could potentially be compatible romantic partners. I don't think compatible romantic partners for me even exist. Sometimes the incompatibility was a factor in that it allowed for warmth to flow without it being a threat. Because that was another thing these cases had in common -- being around someone who treated me as if they liked me. That should not be such a rare thing. So one part is treating me as if they like me. Another part is not trying to get anything from me, being happy just to bask in who I am. But there has to be something more. We have to have common ground, to be on a similar intellectual level and to share values sufficiently that there is some understanding happening. I need to be able to open myself completely to receiving the warmth. With most people, I am somewhat closed off because there is some part of the other person that I don't want to get near. So, I need to trust in the other person's goodness enough to open myself to receiving the warmth they offer. And if the warmth I get comes from their positive view of me, it has to be a positive view of who I actually am. With many people, my way of thinking is so different from theirs, that though they may say that they like me, it's only their image of me that they like, and it has little to do with who I actually am.
What is this about being closed off to people because there is some part of them I don't want to get near? That's one reason I close off. The other is awkwardness, it's fear of opening a conversation that I won't know how to continue, fear of getting myself stranded in an interaction.
Can I find my inner sunshine? Instead of closing off to people, just shine out who I am even if it won't fit what they want me to be? That's my problem, I'm always trying to figure out what is expected of me and what people want from me, instead of just being myself.
But, here I am being hard on myself, saying I should just be able to shine even with no one to understand me. That's a kind of thinking that I don't like the fall into. The reality is that everyone thrives when they are loved. So I should stop telling mysef, "You can never be loved, but you nonetheless have to force yourself to shine as much as people who have the advantage of being loved." I don't think it that explicitly, but in a way that's the attitude behind what I expect from myself.
The next day, the light turned on. It was being with a particular individual that turned it on. He often tells me that I look radiant, and I believe him, because I feel radiant around him. Being around him is like having a ball of sunshine drop into my lap. The rest of my life is gray and cold. But I don't know what to do with this. It seems there should be a way to put more sunshine into my life. But where do I find it? Sure I know one person who turns on the light, but it's not about that one person. It's not like bringing that person more into my life is is what I need. What I have with this person is beautiful as it is, and is not meant to be more. Instead it's a matter of what are the attributes of our interactions that bring me sunshine, and how can I put into my life more things that have those attributes.
Other people have brought my sunshine in the past. What did all these cases have in common? It was mostly men, though not men who could potentially be compatible romantic partners. I don't think compatible romantic partners for me even exist. Sometimes the incompatibility was a factor in that it allowed for warmth to flow without it being a threat. Because that was another thing these cases had in common -- being around someone who treated me as if they liked me. That should not be such a rare thing. So one part is treating me as if they like me. Another part is not trying to get anything from me, being happy just to bask in who I am. But there has to be something more. We have to have common ground, to be on a similar intellectual level and to share values sufficiently that there is some understanding happening. I need to be able to open myself completely to receiving the warmth. With most people, I am somewhat closed off because there is some part of the other person that I don't want to get near. So, I need to trust in the other person's goodness enough to open myself to receiving the warmth they offer. And if the warmth I get comes from their positive view of me, it has to be a positive view of who I actually am. With many people, my way of thinking is so different from theirs, that though they may say that they like me, it's only their image of me that they like, and it has little to do with who I actually am.
What is this about being closed off to people because there is some part of them I don't want to get near? That's one reason I close off. The other is awkwardness, it's fear of opening a conversation that I won't know how to continue, fear of getting myself stranded in an interaction.
Can I find my inner sunshine? Instead of closing off to people, just shine out who I am even if it won't fit what they want me to be? That's my problem, I'm always trying to figure out what is expected of me and what people want from me, instead of just being myself.
But, here I am being hard on myself, saying I should just be able to shine even with no one to understand me. That's a kind of thinking that I don't like the fall into. The reality is that everyone thrives when they are loved. So I should stop telling mysef, "You can never be loved, but you nonetheless have to force yourself to shine as much as people who have the advantage of being loved." I don't think it that explicitly, but in a way that's the attitude behind what I expect from myself.
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