The brilliant and hilarious George Carlin:

“The most unfair thing about life is the way it ends. I mean, life is tough. It takes up a lot of your time. What do you get at the end of it? A Death! What's that, a bonus? I think the life cycle is all backwards. You should die first, get it out of the way. Then you live in an old age home. You get kicked out when you're too young, you get a gold watch, you go to work. You work forty years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement. You do drugs, alcohol, you party, you get ready for high school. You go to grade school, you become a kid, you play, you have no responsibilities, you become a little baby, you go back into the womb, you spend your last nine months floating..... and you finish off as an orgasm.”

No matter how humble or selfless we can try to be, we still exist wholly and exclusively within our own shell, and perceive the world accordingly. And so it follows that we often find ourselves frustrated or stressed over difficulties, and respond with a seemingly proportionate amount of energy. It isn't our fault, as we're only capable of forming responses in the context of our own experience and knowledge. But this is what perspective is for- though we cannot actually see from another's eyes or understand what life feels like from their vantage point, we can, at best, continuously remind ourselves that contexts exist outside of our own.

The other day, I heard someone liken the human lifespan to the small act of placing a single bolt into the golden gate bridge during its construction. An entire life, reduced to a singular act within a massive process, nearly undetectable at the finish, yet still essential. I kept thinking about that analogy and couldn't figure out how to feel about it..

In some way it might feel belittling- the realization that all your days and breaths and thoughts, when rolled up and finished off, amount to nothing more than a nearly-invisible contribution, a minute blip on a broad screen. But by the same token, there is encouragement to be found in that image. To highlight the analogy's point let's imagine we are born, we put a bolt in the bridge, and we die. Sorry to be curt, this is not meant to diminish any individual's significance or worth, but the truth is that our lives are finite, singular pieces of an expansive saga. Remembering this simple fact puts into perspective the weight, or rather the lack thereof, of most momentary and circumstantial woes, and I'm pretty sure that a failure to do so will inevitably result in constant concern for things that are universally and eternally meaningless.

We are so silly, us humans, always busy trying to tie the knots that keep our hearts feeling anchored, trying to weave the fragmented strings of our life together, and usually overlooking the frayed ends sticking out here and there. We sure seem to notice those raw edges though when our knots start slipping and the whole damn thing unravels. Then we actually care to look at the ends where the unraveling began, tracing it back to the source. We're so silly, thinking that we ever have a tight grip on those strings, when really it is but a temporary privilege to hold any of them.

Hold your strings earnestly, but loosely still.

The benefits of losing benefits

As of tomorrow, I will be benefit-less. As of tomorrow, if I fall and break my leg or catch pneumonia, I am officially fucked.

I never thought I'd allow myself to be in such an undefined transition with a professional vacancy as this, but that's probably because nobody mentioned how euphoric it can actually be. Of course, the logistical headaches like losing your benefits and a fat, consistent paycheck can take their toll, but ultimately, it all boils down to what the epic TV series Friends so poignantly identifies as the fear:

Rachel: I'm training to be better at a job that I hate. My life officially sucks.
Joey: Look Rach, wasn't this supposed to a temporary thing? I thought you wanted to do fashion stuff?
Rachel: Well, yeah! I'm still pursuing that.
Chandler: How... exactly are you pursuing that? Ya know, other than sending out resumes like, what, two years ago?
Rachel: Well, I'm also sending out.... good thoughts.
Joey: If you ask me, as long as you got this job, you've got nothing pushing you to get another one. You need the fear.
Rachel: The fear?
Chandler: He's right, if you quit this job, you then have motivation to go after a job you really want.
Rachel: Well then how come you're still at a job that you hate, I mean why don't you quit and get "the fear?"
(Chandler and Joey both start laughing)
Chandler: Because, I'm too afraid

Well folks, I went out and got myself the fear, and I must say it tastes pretty good. This is the taste of movement, this middle ground where things are unknown and guarantees are not given, this is where the work is done and growth results. I've been propelled into this uberproductive yet somehow simultaneously restful place. I feel more at peace with myself and my decisions, and more congruent with my priorities than I have in a very long time, and this- all in the absence of pragmatic responsibility. I have moved on from a fantastic job because it had become painfully obvious that it was a terrible fit for my strengths and passions, and for that, I couldn't be prouder.

In this time of empty space, loose-laid days, and sleeping in, I've begun the most aggressive pursuit of what matters most to me, and I don't think I've ever been so thrilled to be smack in the middle of that vicious and glorious place called uncertainty.

My occasional scribblings on mornings..

Have your mornings.

have them.

Have them on purpose, in purpose,

they are newness, delivered by hand from some saint in the night.

Remember they're gifted, not guaranteed.

Have them with spirit fresh and eyes half-open

untarnished by day and unmet by night,

take heart in the morning

for the possibility

and the light.

***

3 times before, I've woken up in this ethereal, inexplicable state of peace. Upon waking I felt an immediate and undeniable air of peace so thick and saturating, inescapable. The first time it happened was easter morning in 2008. My mom and I got up before dawn to attend the Easter sunrise service on Mount Helix, so as tradition dictates I woke around 4:30. The moment I opened my eyes I could tell something was different.. as I got ready and spoke with mom I could tell I was perceiving and responding to my environment in a new way. I remember feeling unweighted by the burden of rational thought, like all my words and motions were dictated solely by ideals, rather than the selfishness or impatience that typically seeps into the human day. Something about this state of being felt so pure and genuine, almost monastic; it was a curious and alluring thing. But as the sun rose, caffeine and loud voices and traffic seeped into me, and the simplistic bliss of my early morning dissolved.

Whenever I think of those rare mornings, I wonder if simple discipline could bring me to that state more frequently. I find such opportunity and wonder in the mornings- something happens during sleep that resets the mind and heart, and regenerates the chance for change. If daily I could wake in peace, ease into being, and create a nurturing space to mold a purer me before the muddle of life makes its own mold of me, then after enough time I wonder if that mold might just stick.

***

Mornings are not to be taken lightly, they are not to be passively moved through, but rather responded to actively. Mornings hold such untainted richness, refreshment of the highest form; there's a sound and a feeling at the start of day that'll sit you up a little straighter if you pay attention to it.

Even the most hungover or depressed mornings hold a bizarre kind of hope and renewal. I'm telling you it's something in the air, before the atmosphere's been cluttered by gossip and deadlines and critiques and heartbreak..

Flannel lessons

I was walking in a store the other day and saw a flannel shirt on a shelf. I looked at it for a moment and thought to myself, "I like that color combination... should I buy it?"

I was wearing a flannel at the time.

Sometimes, inconsequential moments can be vessels for surprise epiphanies, and this was just such a time. The differences between the flannel on the shelf and the one I was wearing were few, but some minute characteristic made me think for a split second that it could be rational to buy another shirt so similar.

Now the materialistic and often manipulative influence of a consumeristic society certainly plays a part here. With such a surfeit of material goods, whatever's newer, better or bigger somehow has the power to overshadow our perfectly adequate current possessions. Of course, this is the success of consumerism- access to an overabundance of products paired with strategic marketing to create an unending desire for more. Despite this being against everything I'd like to represent, I can't say I am exempt from this effect. I can express gratitude for the things I have, and then in the same breath express desire for something new.

(*For the record, I do realize that living in a socioeconomic position where an overabundance of provisions is even something to wrestle with is, in itself, an immense privilege. But the basic truth is that we wrestle with the culture we're immersed in, relative to what we've known and experienced throughout our lives..)

I've thought before that perhaps the best way to avoid getting sucked into the vortex of materialism is to avoid stores altogether. If I'm not exposed to what's new, I won't desire it. But standing in front of the flannel on the shelf, I realized that hiding from the market we live in is an impermanent and hallow method of remaining materially content. A more genuine solution to keep my behavior congruent with my values occurred to me:

Contentment is not about the absence of something better, it's about- in the presence or possibility of something better- choosing to be content through gratitude for what you already have. It's being able to acknowledge that yes, there is something newer or greater, but what I've got does the job, and I'm satisfied with just that.

Since that day, I haven't gone more than a few hours without thinking about this. It's a simple and possibly obvious statement to some, but nonetheless has impacted me significantly; although the situation may have seemed trivial, this perspective is applicable to the non-material areas of life as well the material. Be it with technology, relationships, food, or a car, this is one way to mobilize gratitude- move it from a state of feeling, to a state of behavior-affecting action.

The Break-in

Most of the time, the internal call to create, to activate artistic vision (be it through writing, or otherwise creating with my hands) feels like a wild beast.. a roaring and grizzly face that comes out from within to stare me down and demand productivity. It's an indispensable urging, but even so, feels like a monster of a task the majority of the time.

Sometimes though, the calling exudes a kind of glowing allure, and rather than demanding, it feels as a seductive beckoning... an irresistible desire to get moving and making before the wave of motivation washes out..

But those times are infrequent for me, and I feel lucky to be so inspired on such occasions that I'm immediately compelled to drop whatever nonsense I'm up to to give time and energy to the good work of creating. Typically though, as is the case when staring into the more beastly face of art, I'm faced with the challenge of persuading myself into action in the absence of inspiration. I recall Picasso's quote, "Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.."

This is a true and bittersweet recognition; it's encouraging to know that action produces momentum to continue, and sometimes momentum is enough if pressing inspiration is nowhere to be found. The only difficulty then, is getting started: how do you get moving before momentum or inspiration have even awoke? (I'm sure procrastinators of the world, in whatever field or discipline, can unite in this struggle.) In fact, I face the same exact dilemma with exercise, because unless there's a soccer ball involved, working out has very little appeal when I'm comfortable at home. So a few months back I started trying a sneaky back-door approach, to see if I could coax myself by only committing to a deceptively small amount of exercise. 10 minutes was the expectation, no more no less. As it turns out, it is 100% inevitable that once I've finished the 10 minutes, once I've begun to sweat, I want more. After experiencing the most minute accomplishment, I wonder how much more I could push myself...

So I figure this approach has got to work for my artistic life as well, but what is the break-in? What small fragment of the process will lure me into the work? it must be manageable, non-intimidating, and virtually impossible to deny the ease of. When it comes to writing, the task is daunting for many reasons ("What's the point? I don't know what to write about. I suck. I haven't got the time..." and so on.), so what if my lure tactic was to require simply that I sit down and write 200 words; they don't need to amount to anything cohesive, they don't need to glow with genius, there simply must be 200 of them. It can be the worst combination of sentences I've ever composed, and with that, I require that I be completely satisfied.

If the expectation is simply that I sit down and write something shitty, then the barrier of intimidation is obliterated {mission accomplished!} and 99.9% of the time that I've done this, by the time I hit the 200 word minimum I'm actually believing I have more to contribute to the page, and I crave to continue. Perhaps this is what Picasso felt, as though inspiration creeps by your door every so often, peeking in silently to see what you're up to. When I'm found complaining and making excuses to evade work, he backs away, because who would want to work with a whining artist? But when I'm found quietly working in his absence, he enters, pleased, and pulls up a chair.