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That growing seed of self-doubt that you’re just not good enough and everyone else is making a mockery of your anguish by celebrating without you (or so it seems)… An oh so familiar feeling. Neighborhood games, cliques, exercise, travel, writers’ groups, bridal showers, parties, gatherings and many others that has everyone wrapped up in each other’s “sense of belonging”. But you forget that you are, and have been in groups with as few members as two, which inadvertently and even deliberately excluded some and crushed egos like yours. It’s a self perpetuating thought that stings like hundreds of paper cuts when you feel like an outsider. You’re going to be fine—you know how this goes, the conflicted emotions that come with being left out to dry and somehow, albeit excruciatingly slow at first, you manage to navigate your way back to that place where you are happy to see others enjoying themselves and even wish them well and quite sincerely. And once again, you rediscover the sheer pleasure of your own company. When you can move on from being dumped—yes, dumped—and come to terms with how everything happens for a reason and that there are no magic formulas to relationships except being your truest self and letting chips fall where they may. And that there is no such thing as ‘novelty of beginnings’ because if you let it be—yourself and others— the universe will spin just as it should and not faster than you think, whenever you’re drowning in deep trepidation and isolation. That the waning is just as intense as the waxing. The path towards darkness isn’t as short and fast as you might think. It’s when you allow fear to guide your actions that you begin the nose-dive degradation into helplessness. But just because you are here right now doesn’t mean you don’t know or can’t return to the light of healing. And just because it cannot be seen, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Believe this—remind yourself (yet again)—this place is familiar territory. And it will repeat itself in dizzying succession because you’re human and you have emotions—raw and unprocessed. You will try everything, you will fall in love over and over again. It will never be perfect. And yet you have and will survive each and every single time—smarting, scathed, shattered, maybe not wiser—but you’ve had your practice and damn me if you say you didn’t so enjoy it while it lasted. It’s alright, faith isn’t supposed to make sense (most times). It’s meant to carry you through the darkest hours when you feel stripped off, of what little strength and courage you have left. It creeps up on you and carries you forward, a step at a time until, you can believe, again. Forgive yourself, then others and move right on. Take everything the same: triumph or defeat, winning or losing, in the company of, and in your sublime aloneness, fame or shame, sadness or gladness they’re all identical just cloaked differently. And temporary. And it’s all going to pass. As if you didn’t know that too, yet. Journey on and hold that heart of yours sacred. When it breaks, it feels like it’s never going to mend but it always does, scars included. Kindness is a gift we take delight in giving others. It’s now time to unwrap it for yourself. ↗
He caught Ben's come in the napkin, the smell making his mouth water harder than any chile sauce could. ↗
Tell me something. Do you believe in God?' Snow darted an apprehensive glance in my direction. 'What? Who still believes nowadays?' 'It isn't that simple. I don't mean the traditional God of Earth religion. I'm no expert in the history of religions, and perhaps this is nothing new--do you happen to know if there was ever a belief in an...imperfect God?' 'What do you mean by imperfect?' Snow frowned. 'In a way all the gods of the old religions were imperfect, considered that their attributes were amplified human ones. The God of the Old Testament, for instance, required humble submission and sacrifices, and and was jealous of other gods. The Greek gods had fits of sulks and family quarrels, and they were just as imperfect as mortals...' 'No,' I interrupted. 'I'm not thinking of a god whose imperfection arises out of the candor of his human creators, but one whose imperfection represents his essential characteristic: a god limited in his omniscience and power, fallible, incapable of foreseeing the consequences of his acts, and creating things that lead to horror. He is a...sick god, whose ambitions exceed his powers and who does not realize it at first. A god who has created clocks, but not the time they measure. He has created systems or mechanisms that serves specific ends but have now overstepped and betrayed them. And he has created eternity, which was to have measured his power, and which measures his unending defeat.' Snow hesitated, but his attitude no longer showed any of the wary reserve of recent weeks: 'There was Manicheanism...' 'Nothing at all to do with the principles of Good and Evil,' I broke in immediately. 'This god has no existence outside of matter. He would like to free himself from matter, but he cannot...' Snow pondered for a while: 'I don't know of any religion that answers your description. That kind of religion has never been...necessary. If i understand you, and I'm afraid I do, what you have in mind is an evolving god, who develops in the course of time, grows, and keeps increasing in power while remaining aware of his powerlessness. For your god, the divine condition is a situation without a goal. And understanding that, he despairs. But isn't this despairing god of yours mankind, Kelvin? Is it man you are talking about, and that is a fallacy, not just philosophically but also mystically speaking.' I kept on: 'No, it's nothing to do with man. man may correspond to my provisional definition from some point of view, but that is because the definition has a lot of gaps. Man does not create gods, in spite of appearances. The times, the age, impose them on him. Man can serve is age or rebel against it, but the target of his cooperation or rebellion comes to him from outside. If there was only a since human being in existence, he would apparently be able to attempt the experiment of creating his own goals in complete freedom--apparently, because a man not brought up among other human beings cannot become a man. And the being--the being I have in mind--cannot exist in the plural, you see? ...Perhaps he has already been born somewhere, in some corner of the galaxy, and soon he will have some childish enthusiasm that will set him putting out one star and lighting another. We will notice him after a while...' 'We already have,' Snow said sarcastically. 'Novas and supernovas. According to you they are candles on his altar.' 'If you're going to take what I say literally...' ...Snow asked abruptly: 'What gave you this idea of an imperfect god?' 'I don't know. It seems quite feasible to me. That is the only god I could imagine believing in, a god whose passion is not a redemption, who saves nothing, fulfills no purpose--a god who simply is. ↗
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900. To You WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands; Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true Soul and Body appear before me, They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem; I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. O I have been dilatory and dumb; I should have made my way straight to you long ago; I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you. I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you; None have understood you, but I understand you; None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself; None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you; None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you; I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself. Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all; From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light; But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light; From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever. O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life; Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time; What you have done returns already in mockeries; (Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?) The mockeries are not you; Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk; I pursue you where none else has pursued you; Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me; The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do not balk me, The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside. There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you; There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you; No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you; No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you. As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you; I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you. Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard! These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you; These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable as they; These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution. The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency; Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself; Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted; Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way. ↗
