Musings
June 20, 2005: Spider-man and striving
After much procrastination on my part, which you will note, I have finally seen the first Spider-man movie, and it, just as its sequel, has affected me in a way far deeper than I would have expected from a comic book film. There were two main issues on which I wanted to write, but it may take longer than a single musing to tackle them; in fact, it make take an entire musing simply to answer one question. The first question is, "how is it possible for a man to attain perfect love?" As you may recall, the very first musing on the site was with regard to Spider-man II, and it asked the question, "is there a Mary Jane for me?" As you will note if you've checked the site at any time in the last six months, or if you know me at all, I now have an answer to that question. To define, in a broader context "a Mary Jane" is what many would consider the perfect mate: some might call her a "soul mate," but the thing that makes her so special is that she sees the same perfection in you as well. There is absolutely nothing to be desired in this kind of situation; it cannot be improved. The thing that makes her a fantasy is that her love is attainable, something so beautiful that it is worth all sacrifice. All the sacrifice, all the obstacles, and all the trials on the road to attaining her love only make it more beautiful. It seems a contradiction in terms: to have perfection, or even to be able to have perfection, when perfection is synonymous with impossibility. So how is it possible? I said that it was fantasy, yet I also fervently believe that I have found Mary Jane.
Let me be frank: some of the issues here are far beyond my understanding. I do not know what God's plan is for men in general, much less his plan for the already confusing topic of love. I can only speak to what a man who has been given his heart's desire can know. That is where I believe that the answer lies: in the desire of a man or woman's heart, and I will warn you now that the conclusion that I have reached is not a pleasant one. I will begin my answer through examining the movie. Spider-man, or rather Peter Parker, had loved "the girl next door" since he was a child, and over a decade those feelings matured into something worthwhile, but his dreams about her were never realised until the events of the movie, when he became something greater than he thought. It is tempting to simplify things and declare that once Peter was Spider-man, Mary Jane could love him. Yet she spoke of thinking of him, not of Spiderman, even when Peter, in disguised form, was next to her, saving her life. It was Peter that she fell in love with, not his alterego.
We must therefore examine Peter's heart. Why did Mary Jane fall in love with him, if not for the superhero that he had become? The answer lies in Peter's desires. He was Spider-man even before he had become a thorn in the side of evil in New York City. His powers existed before he had become what we would term today as "the good guy." Mary Jane would not have loved the Peter Parker that had let a thief escape out of spite for a man who had cheated him. It was Mary Jane's heart that led her to love him, and it was his heart that had drawn her. In short, it was his heart, not his abilities, that had made her fall in love with him. It was his heart that decided that he would achieve the impossible. Not a heart that was focused solely on her, for he had clearly done that for years before the moment that the movie began, but a heart that had put its own desire aside. Peter selflessly began to serve anyone who needed his help, and though he surely still desired Mary Jane, she was no longer the greatest thought in his mind. He had realised he had a duty to do and did it, heedless of the cost to himself. It was only at this point that Mary Jane fell for him, and their hearts began to truly turn to each other. My only conclusion can be that, at least in this movie, a person's desires for another person are only fulfilled when they choose to honour themselves and their lives first, so that they can give the same, even more, to the one that they love.
Is it the same on this side of the television screen? I believe that it is, in a way far more personal and real than any movie, no matter how touching. I have been described as a person who knows who he is and where he is going, and who acts accordingly. I have also been described, in the past, as a person who is afraid to seek after anything that he desires greatly, instead choosing the path of sacrifice. Whether it was a wise decision or not, I strove to toss all of my own desires out the window, and seek only to fulfill my service to God. Like Peter, when I had finally achieved what I thought was an equilibrium, when I was finally happy with who I was and felt that I lacked nothing, the desires which I had ignored came back and were fulfilled, even surpassed. My only conclusion can be that what was true for Peter is true for me and others: once my heart was set where it should be, and my priorities were set straight -- that is, off of myself -- then the desires of my heart were granted. It only goes to show one thing: all gifts come from God, and when he honour him, he honours us. The lesson that I have learned from all the pain, all the difficulty, and all the striving, can be summed up in one word: stop. When we stop striving after the desires of our heart, and instead strive after the desires of God's heart instead, he does something wonderful. Our spirits are changed to long for the things that God's spirit does, our desires are purified, and once we are exactly where we should be, he fulfils them all.
May 31, 2005: Beginnings of holy fear
Prayer actually works. I know that's a pretty bold statement to start the first musing in nearly six months, but if there's anything that I've learned in that time, that is definitely it. I've heard it from myself, from friends, and even from some people who I barely even knew. The sense of amazement on people's faces is staggering. I'm not sure whether or not I should be happy about the response: on the one hand, it's wonderful to see people praising God for his faithfulness, while on the other it's sad that it shocks and suprises people so much that they are beside themselves, as if they had never really tried before.
We all know the saying. "Ask and it will be given to you," Jesus said, "seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." Some of us may have sung it a hundred times in church, or had it mentioned so many times in casual conversation that it has lost all meaning, but the truth remains. NOT the truth that today's culture has placed on these sayings. Today's culture looks at God as an all-powerful overseer of our lives, who loves us, but is not really involved in any meaningful way. That is the God of the professing atheist, as contradictory as the phrase is, and even the God of some agnostics who adopt a title for the sake of having one, and abandon it when they suits them. I repeat, the truth of Jesus' words is not for those who believe in the God of today's culture.
The difference between the true followers of the Lord and those who only profess to know him lies in the words "in the name of Jesus." Every church that I have ever been to has tacked those words onto the end of almost all of their prayers. It's become a bit of a byword for formal prayer, and it seems that most Christians these days look down on any prayer that doesn't end with those words. This is a concept that I scoff at. As if we needed to say certain words to get the attention of our Father in heaven before he would consider our requests! The idea that we need a password before God will accept our praises is staggering.
I know there will be people who read this who feel offended by this statement. I am not saying that the words "in the name of Jesus" are unimportant: my words above clearly demonstrate that the opposite is true. Rather, it is when these are only words that we encounter a problem. Now before you stop reading and toss aside any doubts you may have had about the genuineness of your prayers, and write off these words as just another sermon, consider the meaning of the words in the quotation marks. The name of Jesus is one that commands respect, not only in religious circles but in heavenly ones. To invoke the name of Christ is to call upon what he bought with his life: that is, the right to stand before the God of creation without sin. If we do not honour that sacrifice by keeping ourselves clean through his power, then we are doing far from good to ourselves by saying "in the name of Jesus." If we do not honour his sacrifice, then we condemn ourselves rather than do anything of benefit.
Those words carry a great deal of weight. God does not listen to the words "in the name of Christ"; he applauds living through the name of Christ. Invoking the name and sacrifice of Christ, more than anything else, calls attention to our position as the redeemed of God. It is, in effect, saying to God, "look what I have done with your gift to me." If we are not confident that we have done as we should, how can we dare to come before God and call attention to ourselves in such a manner? It is supreme arrogance, and foolishness.
However, if we can claim to be faultless in the light of Christ's sacrifice, then these words are, in every sense of the words, our saving grace. If we are right with God and invoke the name of Christ, usually through deeds, not through our mouths, then we call attention to how we have been good stewards of the grace and gifts that God has given us through the sacrifice of Jesus. He sees what we have done and looks at us favourably. Why would God bother with granting the prayers of those who have called his wrath upon themselves, who have proven that they squandered the gift of their creator? To do so would be completely antithetical to the nature of a just God.
Finally, God looks at the prayers that we offer, once he has seen that we are trustworthy servants. Perhaps the words "in the name of Christ" with regard to this would be better interpreted as "in the spirit of Christ." If a request is made of God with the same spirit that his son demonstrated when he walked the earth, then it will be a request that it pleases God to grant -- especially when it comes from a servant that God is already pleased with.
That is why prayer works. The confidence that God grants when we know that we are favoured by God is immense. When our guilt is washed away by his mercy, and we know our place in his redemptive plan of history, and the Spirit of God dwells in us, directing our minds to the things of God, we know that our prayers will be answered. That confidence comes from the faith that impresses God, and it is the kind that gets his attention. What I've found, too, is that it's the kind of faith that makes Christianity stop being a game of compromise.
December 10, 2004: A different Christmas message
A couple of days ago, the Christian fellowship that I'm involved with held its last meeting of the term, and the last before Christmas. It was a wonderful night, for many reasons, some of which I will need much more space and time to explain in detail. We sang "My Redeemer Lives" and I made a spectacular fool of myself by making a sound effect at the end of each verse loud enough to wake the dead, and sung Christmas carols as worship songs, which is something that is not done nearly often enough. I was struck by what the leadership asked us to do: to speak aloud of the things which we are thankful for. The usual things were mentioned, like friends, and family, and material comforts, all the things we feel obliged to thank God for. I volunteered that I was thankful for birthday cake. Then, instead of a message being preached or having us split into small groups, we remained together and spent over a half hour simply speaking about Christmas, whether it was a verse, a word, or a memory. Some of the stories touched my heart, but more than anything, I realised that I was with Christians. In that simplest of assertions came a message from God that I felt compelled to share. People felt the Spirit moving, and that same spirit is moving me to say it again here.
In the middle of everyone speaking of the joys of Christmas, I was thinking of another holiday. I thought of the baby whose birth we were celebrating, and I thought about what he would become, what he would do. Remembering all those outside of the walls who did not know Christ, I wondered how little the disciples at the cross understood what was happening to them. Jesus was wholly alone on that cross, forsaken even by God. Stories of presents under the tree were juxtaposed to my thoughts of this poem:
"Alas my love you say goodbye
Wipe the poison from my brow
Alas my love this guilty night
It gives me up like a foster child.
And in this moment I take my vow
With these angels sleeping at my feet
And in this moment, you do not know how
How my spirit wants to flee."
You see, it was one man against the night
Taking on a multitude that had left him high and dry.
No candle burning vigil could light the way
Darkness hit the ground like a fallen satellite
He wrestled until morning with human souls
And dark angels
And there he finished his work
On the third day
Not exactly the most pleasant thoughts in the middle of Christmastime, are they? Yet they were so very real. The words near the end of the poem touched me powerfully. "No candle burning vigil could light the way." That first Friday, the disciples were running, afraid for their lives. The Via Dolorosa was just that, the road of sorrows, and no one was eager to follow in Jesus' steps. The first time, it was anything but joyful. With foresight we look back on these events and see them for their theological impact, but what were the people who were there feeling? Peter was not saying to himself, "I can't wait until Sunday!"; he was afraid he would be the next one up on the cross. In the same way that the message of Easter is lost on those of us who were never there, the wonder of the birth of Christ is misconstrued, and I am not only speaking of Santa Claus and tree decorations. The shepherds were not praising God just because he had sent his son to the world. They were praising him because that son was sent to do something. Why did Mary praise God? It was not just that she would carry the son of the Father; it was that her son would be saviour of the world. "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us," even the faithful Christian will say, but that is not the importance of Christmas. What is important is what it heralds.
What it heralds is this: the Lord of creation sent his son into the world to redeem it. "God did not send his son into the world to condemn the world," John says, "but to save the world through him." Sin, the world's disease, even that sin that reached all the way back to the Garden, was going to be defeated. Mankind was weak, poor, and blind, out in the darkness because of our sinful choices, and yet though all of that sin was a result of free choice, God chose to redeem us anyway. Condemnation is exactly what we deserved, but Christ chose to save us instead. He was perfectly in his rights to leave us to our own devices and let us bring even more wrath down upon our miserable heads, or to just come instantly in power and glory and punish the whole of humankind for its wickedness. Would any of us have done any differently? It would have been like our own children turning against us, disowning us, challenging us to show who we really are. Fortunately for us, we misunderstood God's nature: he would not hold back his judgment, but his love would save us from it, if we would accept him. God entered the world that he created, and it did not even recognize him, and in the greatest paradox of history, subjected himself to his own judgment. One man called it "an act that broke the heart of the Father yet honoured the holiness of heaven." God sacrificed himself on his own altar.
Perhaps the proper response to the act of God becoming man should be "so what?" It would be a singularly miraculous act, to be sure, but if he was just taking a tour, we would not have two billion people on the planet professing his name. So often the message of Christmas is that of God's incarnation, and that only. If we are honest with ourselves, we realise that unless the sacrifice of Jesus is true, then the entire Christmas story is pointless. We need to become like the shepherds and wise men, who were amazed not only by the presence of God, but by the purpose of God.
It is time for us to reclaim our wonder. If it even exists, it is misplaced. Candle burning vigils and Christmas lights are so bright that they cloud our vision. We can no longer see the darkness into which the son of God came, or the true agony of the walk to his trial. How can we praise God for what he has done if we never truly understand what creation was like before his victory? From that understanding, we can begin to truly praise God, not just for the act, but for the love behind the act.
November 26, 2004: Peace
Today seems a little bit too perfect. I spent the morning at home with only my Jesus pants on, and wandered around the house for several hours doing various chores. It was amazing; I felt completely withdrawn from the rest of the world. I looked out of the massive front window and saw a blanket of snow covering the ground, and the river was not frozen. As I was waiting for the bus, I could literally watch the snow melt. Then I spent a half hour reading Lord of the Rings and playing some games on my computer in one of the common rooms, when Lauren showed up. We sat there for another half hour, then went to get lunch, and by the time she left for work, two very long and very pleasant hours had gone by. Then I ran across the freezing bridge and to this cafeteria. I've been here for more than two hours. Am I a procrastinator? You bet, but I'm not lazy; today has been a very good day, and I still have a friend to spend time with and a Bible study to attend. You would think that with all this relaxation my school marks would be suffering, but I just got back a philosophy essay yesterday which I got ninety percent on. I wrote it in the sixteen-hour period preceding the deadline. I'm enjoying myself now as I never really have before, and I'm excelling at school. There hasn't been a soul in this room for the last hour and a half, except for ladies preparing for a special Thanksgiving dinner. Peace: that is the only word to describe this day. I'm learning a lot about it.
Now it is with peace that I can write about almost anything. I would continue explaining about how I overcame the feelings of despair connected with Connie, but I frankly don't want to even hear the word right now. No more despair, just pure unfettered peace, freedom from all cares or the quest to please everyone. I've always preached about that kind of detachment from worldly expectations, but now I live it to the full. Jesus said, "do not suppose I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword" (Matthew 10:34). That verse was always of great comfort to me, because he talked about divisions in families because of faith in Christ; it encouraged me in the knowledge that I was living as God wanted me to. What I am beginning to realise, though, is that world peace may not be a thing mandated by Jesus, but my peace is. He wrote, in the same message, that if we enter a deserving home, we should let our peace rest on it (Matthew 10:13). I had prayed recently for God to give me peace, not for myself, but to show his glory. He delivered, and it is only now that I am realising how true he is to his word: true and so much more.
It is not that I am without my own trials. The opposite gender has given me much to think about in the past week, some of which I cannot yet reveal. I struggle with how to preach God's message when people look at me as a young first year student, and not at my calling. I think about friends, even one already mentioned here, with whom my relationships are on thin ice at best. But in the knowledge that I have been acting rightly, doing as God commands and wishes, I know that I am exactly where he wants me to be. I do not have to worry about where things are going to go, but only what I should do now. I know that if I continue to align myself to the will of the Father, I cannot do wrong. In that knowledge, I know neither blame nor worry nor fear. Sometimes I groan to tell people of how, as Christians, we are no longer "only human," that we have become so much more. I think I am now awakening to that in deed as well.
Some people see what I have attained and become angry, even hostile. What I call freedom, others see as detachment and apathy. When things in my life turn out in ways that they did not expect, and I do not fight to have my own will in the matter, people ask me why I am giving up. One of the most enduring things I have ever heard said is that we should never stop fighting. I always identified with those sentiments because I have always lived in a repressive atmosphere. Subtle war is the best phrase that I can think of to describe my childhood, even reaching up to the last few years. My mind was a battlefield, and only Christ was able to turn the tide in my favour, but still I sometimes looked at him as a means to have my will, instead of the one to whom I should submit. All of my fighting became pointless once I knew Jesus. I would act wrongly and apologize to him, so that I could ask for favours in order to assert my will again. This was not a redemptive life. Fighting showed that I chose poorly and reaped the rewards of those choices, and then responded to that discipline in an even poorer way. If I had only understood that I would not want to fight if I ran after the things of the Spirit, I would have saved myself much grief, and given much more glory to God. I would not have been saddened when I lost things that I loved for the sake of Christ. There would be no struggle to see the good in all things, even in the face of the greatest loss. I would have acted in accordance with the mind of God, and no other course, even successful fighting to retain what I loved, would be better.
Am I giving up? I suppose that one could look at it that way. I am laying down things I was never meant to keep in the first place. As Jim Eliot said, "he is no fool who gives up what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose." I am gaining treasures for myself in heaven, acting in accord with the Spirit that God has planted in me. Everything that I once counted as gain, I now consider loss for the cause of Christ. That is where my peace comes from.
In the middle of the battle, I believe I finally found
I'll never know the thrill of victory till I'm willing to lay down
All my weapons of defense and earthly strategies of war
So I'm laying down my arms and running helplessly to yours
I surrender all my silent hopes and dreams
Though the price to follow costs me everything
I surrender all my human soul desires
If sacrifice requires that all my kingdoms fall
I surrender all
Clay Crosse, "I Surrender All"
November 24, 2004: Cookies
After promising to explain what I have gone through in the last few months -- the restoration of joy, and the promise of redemption from my grief -- I find myself unsure where to begin. I know that I must do it, both to edify my readers and through some kind of justification to my own heart, but I have already explained it so eloquently in narrative form, and to show my decisions in a logically coherent way is a task that seems not only extremely difficult, but somewhat pointless. I thank God for how he has brought all of this to pass, and for the beautiful day that I see in front of me. I am sitting in a common room near the science buildings on campus, and though I am on the second floor there is a wide space just outside the window to walk in. People are walking by, enjoying their days with each other, and past the bridge I can see the ridge, where I can watch the sunset. Did I mention that I am watching the first snowfall? Similar, so similar to the beginning of my time with Connie. It has been brought full circle, and I feel completeness. In the midst of this beauty, feeling the spirit of creation, I am compelled to write. That is why I can share my story.
And now, I am going to get some cookies.
I was thirteen cents short, but the lady gave me my four cookies anyway. I love these cookies. Don't tell my mother, but they're better than hers, and that is saying something. Soft in the hand and in the mouth, my stomach is in heaven as soon as I eat them. Don't I sound different? My musings have been full of eloquent thoughts: deep and inspiring, so I've been told. I sometimes show joy in them, but not once was there even a hint of the Robbie that my friends know and love. "And now, I am going to get some cookies" seems more real than anything else that I have written. It might be normal for the me that I let the world see, but to actually be that person is something new, and is something I am discovering more every day.
Like I implied before, today reminds me of the day that I started seeing Connie. Almost like it was yesterday, I can imagine me wrapping my arms around her, and remember my heart skipping a beat when she told me she felt the same way that I did. I could almost be posing for my favourite picture of us.
At least, that is what I would be writing if I had not done what I had to do. Three months later, we decided it was better for her if we would just be friends. It sounds like a typical teenage breakup, and it probably was, but I took it hard. We had only dated for a quarter of a year, but I spent three times that long dealing with it. Phrases like "you treated me like gold" and "you don't deserve to be treated like that" were the catalyst for a downward spiral which left me despising myself for being foolish, but despising women more. I became angry with friends, connecting my grief suffered because of love to imagined thoughts of betrayal. I shut myself off from the world of love, wanting to live a life of pain, because at least that was something I could control.
I justified this by calling myself to a life of sacrifice. If I could not love her, I said, then I would love no one, and she should be grateful. It was arrogant and selfish, wanting to control the reactions of others so that I could prove to myself that I was acting rightly. Fortunately, I have a God and Father who is not afraid to tell his child when he is acting foolishly. I decided to listen to a God who knew better than I did, and once that was done, it did not take long to realise that I had made a mistake. Sacrifice, I realised, was indeed what I had been called to, but it had to be pure. What I learned was that it would require the sacrifice of nothing less than my greatest possession: after all, I loved Connie, despite my foolish judgments.
At first, I was more focused on giving a pure sacrifice to Connie. The sacrifice of my happiness on her behalf, I reasoned, was the greatest gift I could give: I would love her from a distance, always feeling the pang of grief, knowing I could never hold her. I should have realised that I was holding back from her the one thing I had to give up, and that was the love itself. If I truly wanted to be pure, I had to stop loving her. I had to ask a question, though: why would the removal of such a wonderful thing as love be right for her? My answer is that my friendship with her was at a standstill because God had ordained it to be that way; it was frustrated because I was not right with him. That was the reason for the constant arguments, the anger, and the awkward feelings. As I wrote in a prayer in one of my stories, I had begun to delight in the gift, not in the giver, and that was not right. What God taught me in his mercy was that it was not my relationship to Connie that I should be worried about, but my relationship with my maker. It was not that I had stopped loving him, but that my love had been tainted by the desire to love another. Had I remained in that state, I would have come up with excuses to deny God, only half-serving, saying that he would never ask me to lose a gift that he had bestowed.
That, however, is exactly what he was asking. Scripture says that we should live as though the things we have are not ours to keep, and that is exactly what I was not doing. I do not know if losing Connie was simply a punishment for disobeying the commands I have promised to uphold, but I believe that there is a nobler purpose to this. St. Augustine wrote that evil cannot exist in a world created by a benevolent and omnipotent God, unless God, in his wisdom, allowed evil to exist in order to bring good out of it. I can see no good now in my friendship with Connie, but I still feel confident that in some other way, I will be glad, in a measure a hundred times more than I am now, that I loved her. How that will be, I can dream of now, even to the point of a name. All that I know for certain is that I will be overwhelmed.
September 29, 2004: Stopped by my obscurity
Today, something happened that got my attention. After coming home from an early class, I turned on the television and saw that one of my favourite shows, Stargate SG-1, was already half way finished. It was an interesting episode: discussions about alternate realities and the endless possibilities therein always pique my interest. To make a long story short, the end of the show was what really touched me. One of the characters from an alternate reality watched with grief as the heroes went back to their own world, and a tear fell down her cheek. Fans of soap operas and other drama might have called it a poor attempt at a romantic encounter, but I thought that it was perfect. It also made me ask a question. I dismissed it as rhetorical and went on to finish my philosophy and history homework. However, after getting off the phone with a friend, I press the power button on the remote again, and the same episode was on. I might have dismissed this as simple luck, but I also tuned in at the exact same moment in the show as I had this morning. I knew then that I had to explore this question further.
That question is very simple: what do I want from this thing called love? In a sense it is a rhetorical question, because I already know the answer. As I saw this grown woman cry for the loss of her loved one, I felt a gaping hole inside of me, and for once it was not because I am forever lost to Connie. Seeing an adult cry was close enough to my own experience to make me realise how unloved I actually feel. Last night, I went to a dessert crawl with the Christian fellowship on campus, and ended up sitting by myself in the midst of twenty other people, finally leaving without a word, unnoticed. Friends who have known me for years assure me that they love me, and yet there are so many past experiences that poison that possibility. I walk with them, laughing and smiling, and feel like no more than a distant classmate to them. Jamie is the only person in the world that makes me feel loved, and this is not right. To be direct, when I saw the woman on Stargate cry, I flinched in the realisation that I know of no one who would do the same if I were lost. I want to be worth crying about.
Perhaps this is selfish; I do not know. Tears over me would be more healing to me than anything, whether a word of encouragement, or a hug, or even a kiss. Barren is the only word to describe how I feel. I know my worth in the sight of God, and can never forget it. His love surrounds me like a shield in the midst of a world gone cold. He, and Jamie his servant, are the only exception to this rule. My friends, I believe, would count it no great loss to find themselves devoid of my presence. Even if I am wrong, and tears are shed when I am gone, it would be only out of the loss of my sense of humour. It would be the loss of a comic and not a prophet that they would mourn. In short, people would grieve over me because of the loss of what I could do for them, not because of who I am.
September 24, 2004: Dejected acceptance
Human nature is treacherous. I once read those words in a book by one of my favourite authors. The hero, being embraced by a friend whose father had just passed away, focused not on how he could be a pillar of strength to her, but on how wonderful it felt to have her resting against his chest. I agreed with the words as soon as I read them; though our actions may be noble and pure, very often the motives behind those actions are less so. Whether because of promise of future reward or because of what we have been taught, a human being will usually do good things not because he wants to, but because he must. It is a sad state of affairs, that to do rightly requires the restraint of human nature. I nodded at these words once, but now I know their truth in my heart, having experienced them for myself.
When I saw the one I love again, less than a month ago, I knew that all my reasoning, designed to kill my love for her, had been in vain. A half-glance had been enough to show me this, and I knew that I could love no one else. This was not some teenage crush, no reasonless fascination quickly killed; it was because I could never live with myself having settled for any less than the best I had known. And so she was.
It is here that my nature becomes treacherous, for I sometimes find it necessary to convince myself that she still is. I have not found anyone who possibly compares to her, just as I said I would not. Living relatively alone here, though, has made companionship, and with it love, more necessary than it ever was when I lived with four other people. There are girls here whom I can see find me anything but repulsive. Some smile at me, some simply through acquaintance or friendship, and others with motives that could be different. I find myself disgusted with my own nature, because I know that sometimes I am drawn to others, and for moments I nearly forget the devotion I expressed three weeks ago. There are even a few here whose devotion to Christ is enough for me to warrant these feelings. But I am a scarred man, and even if by some strange twist of fate a God-fearing girl loves me, I could never accept it. Since I have known Connie, to accept the love of another would be a sentence of grief to myself and to the poor girl whose heart was turned to mine. I can no longer offer anything but pity in the face of this kind of love.
Yet some words come to mind, as they always seem to these days. "Though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater." I have spoken these words so many times through my musing, but now they hold a new power. Laid out here is the reason for why I cannot let my heart hearken to another person again. I do not have the capacity to love another as I could love the one I do now; this I have told myself. What I understand now, though, for the very first time, is that offering my heart to another, pierced by grief as it is and will be, and knowing that it will only become keener as years pass, is a greater act of love than I could ever have given Connie. In A Telling of Stars, Jaele said of her love, Dorin, "he is not for me." I know now that Connie is not for me, because though to my heart any other is lesser, my love for any other will be greater. It was the most selfish act in my life to speak of how I could never open my heart to another because of what it would mean for me. Blinded by my own pain, I could not see that I would be robbing Connie of the fullness of my love. What I know now is that if she had ever loved me, neither of us would ever have been complete. I had to be wounded like this, beyond any hope of healing, before I could be ready to be the man that anyone could ever fall in love with.
As it is, I am unlovable. I am not so arrogant as to believe that simply by the written admission of these things I can now offer my broken heart with confidence. I have not the strength of a hero or the rashness of a child. Perhaps I must first meet the person who can love me, for I am certain that day has not yet come, before I will be ready. It may be that feelings must surface and be brought into the open as well. There may be more obstacles that I have not foreseen, but although I am close to tears, I feel more free now that I have said the words I never wanted to believe. I will say them again, though my heart breaks:
Connie is not for me.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004: Statues and lies
Sometimes words fail me. I do not speak of being unable to write, but of the ultimate futility that writing can sometimes demonstrate. After all of my writing to convince others, and myself, that I was no longer held by my love for one I can now never hold, I saw her less than a fortnight ago. One look at her made ten thousand words of reasoning fall into pointlessness, for I realised that I had been lying to myself out of ignorance. I know now that I could never claim to have gone beyond loving her without seeing her first. So I was proved a fool once more, and a brokenhearted one. The pain was simply unbearable, but in the midst of it I stood up and faced it as a man. I took her aside and laid down all the cards, telling her exactly where I stood and what I expected to happen between us in the future. I told her that grief would be a friend for the rest of my days, because I could never forget the loss of her, after I had loved something so beautiful as deeply as I loved her. I also said that I could never love another person, because to me it would be dishonouring myself to settle for something less; for so I hold any other. I then spoke the words of my favourite author, as I have so often done: "though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."
I must admit that it is now difficult to see the truth in those words. I grieve for her still; in fact, more now than I ever have, for I have seen her, but I see no beauty in it. Helplessness and futility are the words that come to mind. Tonight as I waited for the bus I began to think of her, as distant now as ever, though our lives have both changed. We move on and become no closer, and my pain, which I regard as a gift to her, borne to honour her, will seem a matter of little import to her, if any at all. I do not believe that she thinks of me. Words of how I could never be replaced, and of how she will never be lost to me, are as words spoken to a child thinking there are monsters under his bed. I must face the truth like a man, I realise now, just as I faced her. The truth is brutal, but I cannot shrink from it: though I desire nothing less, I am already lost to her. I am a shadow of her past, gnawing at her, gnawing at myself until nothing remains. I am reminded now of the old poem, Ozymandias:
"'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains...
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
With hopefully less arrogance than the fallen king, I had believed that she and I would endure. Now she is gone, and I still watch the place where we might have lived. In my mind is a statue, a memory of all that could have been. She will never return there, in her mind or mine, and as I watch the place fade and the inscriptions blur, it will become a haven for those who wish to understand pity, not beauty. I wonder if I will still be there then.
I grieve so often, almost deliberately. I have loved so deeply that there can be no returning, and even the shadow of it brings life to a standstill. I had never desired anything before her, and I cannot believe that I ever will again. If I do, I hope that these words will keep me from betraying myself and settling for anyone but her. I know now that I will never hold her again, and the thought breaks my heart; but if anything could bring more grief than this, it would be seeking solace in the arms of another. To me it is infidelity. Already my thoughts turn that way, seeking to prove that she is less than I make her, that there are perhaps others who are suited to my love, and even I to theirs. I cannot deny those thoughts entirely, not least because she has spoken the same. Yet I also know that a single gaze upon her would convince me that there is no other. I am in love with her, and those are words I had promised myself I could never say of anyone after so short a time. The real question is this: is love blind? From where comes the lie, her face or my mind?
Wounds; so many wounds. I have enough material in this half hour's writing to start my master's thesis. The answers, if they will ever be known by me, are elusive. I am a prophet through my own writing, for I am stuck, just as I once narrated. Words flow from one grief to the next and back again, raising new questions, always the answer two steps ahead. The one question to rule them all is so simple, the only thing clear: what do I do now?
September 1, 2004: Love is not armageddon
Having just finished watching two episodes of Star Trek, I flipped to watch the very end of a third, because there are three different shows playing at four o'clock. I recognized the scene from Voyager immediately; it showed a maternal Janeway talking to Harry Kim about the changes that had gone on in him over five years. He had disobeyed every tenet of Starfleet code to stand by a woman he had fallen madly in love with. He commented that he was no longer the perfect officer of half a decade before. The response? "Maybe. But you're a better man." He had, in the end, made a decision that would make him feel like a betrayer to his love, and more importantly one that would cause him heartache. The important point is that he did this with the foreknowledge of the consequences. For him, the greatest consequence would be for his own heart. He did this not out of fear of losing his position on the ship, but because he knew that the love he had hoped for could never be. It is my belief that he had shown himself to be a better man because he sacrificed his dreams for the truth which he had claimed. Fairy tale views of love no longer held him in their sway, and he would not treat with disdain all that providence, or fate if you wish, had granted him. The conjurings of his mind would not lead him to loss through his own foolishness.
Later on, a colleague came to him, thanking him for doing some of her work, which she had done in an attempt to distract himself from the pain. Earlier, she had likened love to a disease. Knowing that he had the option of a medical solution to the symptoms of the disease, and that he had denied treatment, made little sense to her. I had expected her, cold as she is, to simply condemn Harry for his reactions, calling him weak. Instead she concluded that her analogy was wrong. I personally believe that neither is the case. Seven of Nine used an analogy of love when she should have used a definition. She should not have said that love is like a disease; she should have said that it was a disease. If it is such, then there is no cure, only time to mend wounds. If a feeling, then one that changes a person more quickly and more completely than any other. If a word, then the most wonderful and destructive of all. It is beyond definition, beyond telling, beyond words, but there is nothing like it.
Love is a condition. It is a state of existence that separates one from all former things, but is not always destructive. It is the most powerful force in the universe, and the rewards, or losses, connected to it are complete. All that I know of it in this moment can be summed up in two words: beyond recovery. Whether grief or joy is the result, there can be no going back. There is no sign declaring a point of no return; love itself is that point. It is impossible to recover what has been, for love changes a person. It is for this reason that one cannot encounter God and go away the same person; love is who he is. I am not writing a theological argument, acquitting God of all fault in the destruction that can sometimes accompany the love that he created. I simply want to make clear that there is no recovery.
This is how Harry truly showed his manhood. He knew that there was nothing he could do about the situation in which he was placed. Love for another person, he came to realise, is meant or not meant to be. If it calls for a person to deny their very existence and the things which they hold dear, it cannot be true. Love that is pure and blameless changes a man by enhancing what he has already been given, and giving the promise of a future of joy, not by armageddon. After all, as Paul said, "knowledge puffs up, but love builds up" (1 Corinthians 8:1). As I said before, Harry gave up his dreams for this truth. The girl whom he loved was extremely beautiful, passionate, and loved him just as much as he did her, but he would have had to deny everything his life had been built on to be with her. The loss of his Starfleet career, not to mention the quest to return home, certainly seemed to him less than the pain of losing her. Yet he learned this of love: that it asks only to be allowed to grow, never to destroy all that has come before it. He knew, then, that what he desired so much was not right. With this wisdom he did what he knew was the proper course, though it seemed to him the greater loss. It is a simple teaching, to do what is right despite one's feelings, but Harry has taught me that its power has been dulled by repetition. It is not an easy task; wisdom rarely is.
This is not to say that sacrifice is not involved, nor that the love should never have been. Often the offering of oneself for another, with full understanding of the consequences, is precisely how love adds to a person, so long as it does so without asking them to deny their very selves. It is up to each of us to discern between the love of sacrifice and the loving sacrifice. I, too, must do this, for sacrifice is in my nature. I must truly realise that "love is not self-seeking" (1 Corinthians 13:5) and to not assume that offering myself up to wounding is always the right course. Sometimes, I still believe, love is sweet and lovely without the need of a grimace.
August 29, 2004: Cowardice is strength?
Cowardice. It is a word that no one likes to hear. We use it often to describe our enemies, and it forms the basis of some of our most damaging insults. Honour, one of the highest ideals that we hold dear, hinges on our emptiness of it. We create heroes formed around the value we place on courage. Some have even described it as what makes us human. Deep Space Nine, which is in my opinion the most philosophical of the Star Trek series, speaks about this deeply in an episode called "Nor the Battle to the Strong." Jake Sisko, budding author and son of the commander of the title station, was accompanying Doctor Bashir on a routine trip, hoping to write an article about his work. It took an unexpected turn when they received a call for aid from a settlement under attack. Jake found himself in the middle of a war zone, experiencing the horrors of war first-hand. He was shocked by the brutality of triage, a system created from the desire to heal. The morbid humour of doctors, discussing whether disintegration or decapitation would be less painful, keeping calm in life-and-death situations by the only means necessary, unhinged him.
On a mission to find some power reserves, he saw the Doctor knocked to the ground by falling boulders. A moment later, he too fell unconscious, fleeing from the attackers. When he finally awoke he had no idea where he was, and wandered off in the wrong direction. Eventually, he found a man near death, whose only plea was to let him die without his face in the dust. Jake refused to simply do nothing, and tried to think of something that he could do to help; it was only with great reluctance and difficulty that he admitted his helplessness. He cried out that if only he could assist the man, then everything would be all right: the entire situation, to be sure, but more than anything his own cowardice. He was looking for penance. "Sorry, kid," the near-corpse said, "life doesn't work that way," and was forever framed in a horrible grimace. Jake went back to the compound as a shell of a creature and found that the Doctor had succeeded where he had failed. His older mentor was admonishing himself for bringing a frail child along with him, and it was more than Jake could bear. The last thing he wanted was the pity and understanding of those stronger than him, those without fear. When the attack on the compound finally came, the eighteen-year old was found hiding underneath a table. In a moment of final resolve, he formed the end of the last defense, finally sealing the way with a rockslide.
He came to. The attack had been stopped, and his father, sick with worry, was standing over him. Bashir called him a hero for his final act, but Jake felt like anything but. Meditating on his experiences later, he showed the story of what had happened to the elder Sisko, including his submission to fear. The final line read, "I have learned that the line between courage and cowardice is a lot thinner than most people think." Earlier, he had had a conversation with a soldier whose reaction to war was similar to his own. They agreed that when the explosions start going off, all you can think about is getting as far away from them as possible. Jake had perhaps not acted heroically because of noble character, he realised, but because he wanted the there was a rifle aimed at his chest. He had wanted to stop the weapons from firing, and not from a desire to save others. It was the situation that made him stand out as a hero. He could be full of courage in one moment and completely devoid of it the next. True heroes, he came to understand, are those who do so by character, not by circumstance. His father's response was that it takes courage to admit one's faults, and even more to write it down for others to hear.
I wonder whether there is truth in this. Certainly I have learned much by examining this episode, but not what one might expect. There is no realisation in my heart now about whether or not I am a hero. I am not more aware of courage, or cowardice, in myself than I did three hours ago. It is the father's response, and that alone, which I feel is important. This is, of course, because through these musings, I have come to realisations about myself, many of them unpleasant, and have not flinched from showing them to anyone who knows this address. I not feel heroic because of it. I feel peace, yes, that I am confident enough about myself to admit my shortcomings, but I do not believe it is because I have courage. I do these things because the judgments of most people mean very little to me, and to encourage and enlighten others to understand things about themselves. I simply do not wish to deprive others of the things that I have learned, because it is both selfish and arrogant. That said, musing came from my own need to understand my nature and existence. I did it because I had to. If one wishes to call the uses to which I put my writing honourable, they may do so. Yet I primarily wrote, and continue to write, these examinations for myself. I wonder if this is heroic?
August 18, 2004: Serdic's hope
It is with something akin to sadness that I begin to write this last examination of the male characters in A Telling of Stars. I feel as if I have come to know them even more intimately than before, when I had already connected with each in a powerful way. The irony is that Serdic is the only one of Jaele's love interests in whom there is any real hope at the close of the book, and yet I feel more sadness at the beginning of writing this than I have for any of the others. I cannot decide which of the four I am most like, but Serdic is definitely the one I connected with the most from the outset. He is also the one that I commend the most; his motives and actions are, in my opinion, the purest. Morals and respect mark his character like none of the others. It is perhaps because of this that I would at least like to believe that he and I are more similar than anyone else.
Serdic is a simple fruit merchant. He and his sister sell sourfruit, growing in an orchard outside their home; his life is anything but extraordinary. He is quiet-tempered, his skin pale, and adventure is not a word in his vocabulary. He dreams only to live in peace and to follow in the footsteps of his father. Contrast this with Jaele; passionate, the reason for her quest revenge. Even her appearance contrasts his. This creates a kind of rift between them, an awkwardness not seen between any other characters in the novel. It also makes the feelings between them seem more tender, young and vulnerable. After a life of such struggle, one might be tempted to believe that the possibility of love between the two, if not Serdic himself, is weak, but I do not believe this to be the truth. There is something beautiful about the frailty of the bond that exists between them. I am reminded now of the words of the Lord when he said to Paul, "my power is made perfect in weakness," (2 Corinthians 12:9) for the power of God is manifested most powerfully in his love, because it is this aspect of his nature that defines who he is. I don't deny that the other relationships that Jaele had, with Dorin in particular, were special in their way, but I was drawn to Serdic from the beginning, seeing someone who could promise to love Jaele like no one else could. To put it in a few words, there was nothing about him to keep love away. This is another reason that I would live to believe that he and I have so much in common.
The most puzzling thing about him is that he has the qualities of the other three. Like Aldreth, he is passionate, but instead shows it through gentleness, which I believe only enhances the expression. He is mysterious in his way, just like Dorin, and yet this draws Jaele to him, instead of pushing her away. He and Ilario, too, have much in common, for his pale skin is symbolic of his weakness. I was suprised, walking last night, to realise this, because as I began studying these four in more detail, I had expected to find only reasons to believe that there is too much about me that is contrary to love to ever think it possible. Yet I asm still left with the question of why there is hope for Jaele and Serdic, when so much appears to be working against them.
It probably has much to do with the changes that are going on in Jaele. After so many traumatic experiences, when she arrives at the city in which Serdic lives, she has to convince herself that she still has a quest to achieve. The faces of her murdered family no longer haunt her dreams; she can barely recall them to memory. She begins to let go of what had happened and learn something of peace. Yet, after having returned from across the ocean, finding herself near Serdic again, she is restless. He tells her that she cannot stay because in her heart she is a traveler. She may have learned something of peace, but for the time being it is found in journeying. It is a sad farewell in the last few pages of the book as he says goodbye, simply telling her how to find him again should she ever want to. Being the perhaps obsessively observant reader that I am, I noticed that in the map of her journeys, the road ends near where Serdic's hometown was supposed to have been. It is my belief that in the end, Jaele comes to an end of journeying and goes home to him. This may be out of my longing for a happy ending for her, or myself, but despite the reasons, the belief is there.
This brings me back to my original question: why? What is my reasoning for the two of them finding and keeping love? There is so much different about them, and yet I have already written that it was this which made their desire for each other so beautiful. It is as if their differences tempered each other. There were little to no interests they shared, and he could not share in her quest for revenge; even their views on most things were different. For all of this, though, they made each other happy, and I believe that both became better people because the other was near. She learns from Serdic that the most intense passions may find their greatest expression in gentleness, not great displays of power. He in turn came to understand that his own person was a gift in itself, and came to realise his own worth. By being together, the two embraced each other's views, adding to them, making them more potent, just as they were doing to each other's souls. It is at this point that I cannot help but see a parallel to myself.
Many people who know me also know that I do not believe that I will find someone who can truly love me, because I am a very unique individual. I hold views that most find pessimistic at the very least. My interests are strange to almost everyone, and I have a streak of individualism that has thrown all of my friends a curve ball. I take more joy now in watching the sunset, or listening to the trickling of a fountain, than in being in the company of a host of people who care about me. Yet now, examining what went on, what may go on, between Serdic and Jale, I realise that this has been arrogant. I have no right to believe that I am so unique that there is no one who could have the capacity to love me. I don't deny that there are some interests I would like the girl that I fall in love with to have, simply because they form an integral part of who I am, and my soul often manifests itself through these hobbies. Now, though, I do not want someone who is a female version of myself. She has to add to me, to make me a better person, to further everything about me, just as I hope she would expect me to do for her. I am reminded of Aeris, whose death in what many would demean by calling it a video game, breaks my heart. I do not ask for a girl who will cry when the sword pierces her chest. But somehow, somehow, she will make even that more sweet.
August 16, 2004: Ilario's frailty
I admit that I have been impatient with writing this musing. Ilario, the third man that Jaele meets in A Telling of Stars, is different from the other three in nearly every way possible. He also is comical in some ways, which attracted me to him. I wanted to write out my impression of him, but I knew that it was not yet time for me to write this until tonight, when God spoke to me and showed the connection between myself and Ilario. It is late, but I feel like writing now is a necessity, not only for my understanding but for my peace.
Conflict is the only word that comes to mind when I think of him offhandedly. Everything about the man is a contradiction; his appearance, which I first mistook for that of a clown, does nothing to show the deadly struggle with which he is faced. He spends his days wandering the streets of his hometown very quickly, but has little to no hope of finding what he seeks. Everything about him seems to be in disagreement with itself, and makes for a very interesting, if confusing, character. When Jaele meets him near the end of her journey, she is residing in the garden under his window, since she has no place to stay. In the course of time, she eventually learns that Ilario is dying, but that the cause is unknown.
It is this aspect of his life that puzzles me. One would think that with such a real quest to achieve, Ilario would be doing all that he could to effect his own cure. Or perhaps if this was not the case, that he would lie in bed and wait for the end, or create an end himself. Yet he does some of all of these things, but none in their entirety. He does seek to heal himself, yet he does it with all of the resignation of a man about to slit his own throat. He wanders around the town, seeking out old remedies or magical potions, anything that would promise him the healing that he needs, and does so with great vigour, and still he believes that everything he is doing is meaningless. He has no hope, but still chooses to labour. Ilario could have very easily been the Teacher in the book of Ecclesiastes.
Of course, there are many things that Ilario and I do not have in common; for example, I know that all my work has a purpose, that can be redeemed, and so I have hope for the future, while Ilario has none of it. I think that the thing that we do share is resignation. Many are the times that I have given up hoping for something that I long for, simply because it is easier, while hiding behind a cloak of logic. I can prove almost anything, and so I can convince myself that there is no reason to believe that I will ever find love, or publish a novel, or any other myriad of things. Ilario and I are both very academic people, and we both use this aspect of ourselves to kill our hope.
It is not difficult to show how this can be a step in the wrong direction for a person seeking love. If love does come along, a hopeless heart will often despair from the beginning, believing that nothing will come of it, and so push it away. Also, without hope a man may completely miss the opportunity of love, having his mind set on ignoring such things. In time, these things begin to happen subconsciously, so that we no longer think about the gift which we were meant to receive. This happened to me recently, but now I am beginning to realise, thanks to Ilario, that all of it is foolish.
It is pointless, I know now, to not hope. For the words of Paul come to me now, that "these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love" (1 Corinthians 13:13). Faith does not depend on our own selves; it comes from God, who is love incarnate, and it is set on the love that he has for us. In the same way that love is what makes faith possible and faithlessness foolish, hope is not dependent on the reasoning of man. It too rests in the love of God. If we use logic to verify our hope, it is no longer hope, and it will always fall short of what it was meant to be. Hoping and dreaming lifts us above our existence and prepares us for the tasks for which we are appointed. I understand now that even hopelessness will make little difference, for God grants the gifts that he wills in spite of our opinions. Where, then, is the logic in choosing not to hope? We were meant to do it, and deny our very existence if we do not. Simply put, if I do not hope, and God then surpasses all expectations and provides for me, then I have been a fool, crushing the joy that comes through hope. If I choose instead to hope, and he provides, then what cause is there to do anything but celebrate? As for hopes not being realised, it simply does not happen, if we are hoping for the right things, but that is a subject for another musing.
If we hope with a right understanding of ourselves, we will never be disappointed, and coming from a person such as I, that is a very bold statement. It was the hopelessness of Ilario that condemned him just as much as his illness. Yet before the end, he was smiling and laughing for days on end. If this is what can happen without hope, I cannot even imagine what fruit hope can bear. It is time to hope, "for we do not fix our eyes on what is seen but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal" (2 Corinthians 4:17-18).
August 15, 2004: Dorin's mystery
I'm being a recluse at a pool party held by my young adults group today. Don't worry; I'm enjoying it this way, and I have a good friend with me. I am, however, struck at the amazing preparation that God makes for these musings that I write. You see, today I am taking joy in solitude, more than I have in the past week, and it is also today that my schedule would require me to write about Dorin from A Telling of Stars. He is the very picture of solitude and secrecy, and I am incredibly grateful for the affirmation that God is both using and teaching me through these words.
Jaele actually meets Dorin long before any of the others in the story. The first sentence of the book begins with "Jaele met Dorin" and though he is forgotten for a time by her, I was waiting for the time that the two would meet again. It is difficult to explain his character to someone who has not read about him; I would use words like withdrawn, solitary, mysterious, and enigmatic, but all fall short of the mark. He is one of the people who need their own adjective. Yet for all his strange qualities, he is still a character that is difficult to not be drawn to. He has passion like Aldreth, but it runs through all of his other qualities. It is not what defines him, but rather what shines through his actions.
If you know me at all, you might think that I am writing an autobiography. It is true that I felt a sameness with Dorin by the end of the first page of the novel, but upon meeting some other characters I realised that I am like many of them. I cannot deny, though, that Dorin and I are more alike than even I might like to admit. He is an attractive hero, but there are many decisions and views that he holds that I cannot agree with. I do not wish to ruin any of the story, but let it be enough to say that he and Jaele are separated on multiple occasions, and he does little to fight the outcome. He is passionate, yes, but perhaps fights more for stagnancy than anything. He refuses to do much for anyone, and hides behind an ideal of his own nature to justify it. He is selfish, in his way.
I am glad for the free and largely objective forum for which musing allows. If someone were to suggest to my face that I had these qualities, I would scoff and be greatly offended. Here, though, in a place where my thoughts can be examined, I can admit that I have all of these characteristics in some measure. I am often resigned to unpleasant outcomes of situations, even though the end is uncertain, and many are the times that my fear of future relationships, romantic or otherwise, have caused me to sit still. I need hardly add that Dorin could very easily be called Robbie when it comes to his reasoning for his actions. This is why it is important to examine why Dorin and Jaele eventually part. In the words of Jaele herself, "he is not for me." I must understand if and why this is also the case with me.
At first glance, the answer is simple: Dorin is a cruel and unfeeling person, and will reap the rewards of his coldness by one day being left alone and friendless. However, since I know more about Dorin due to reading the book, and because I have often been called these things myself, I have a different and perhaps more educated opinion. Dorin is most definitely a confused young man. I do not think that he knows as much about his own nature as he makes others believe he does. The things about his person that others find so blaringly obvious are mysteries to him, just as the reasoning behind those traits are mysteries to others. He acts very much on impulse, fueled by his own desires, and this is how his selfishness is manifested. It is my belief that because of his life of solitude, the very idea of doing something for another person is alien to him. It is not necessarily because of a lack of passion or of heartlessness, but of experience; he has simply not known otherwise. To him, doing something for another would make as little sense as pledging allegiance to the ocean, because both people and nature are separate from him. He has never fully explored the idea of other creatures being on the same plane of existence as himself. Again, these things are likely unknown to him, because he learns best from experience and not from study or self-examination, but I do not believe that this negates the lesson that may be learned.
I am not trying to absolve Dorin, or myself, of guilt, but only to attempt to explain his nature. If what I am saying is true, then the thing that is holding Dorin back from being in a perfect relationship with Jaele is his nature of selfishness, brought forth by his experience of solitude. Perhaps it is not possible to love a person as deeply as I want to without first being free of solitude, in some ways. Certainly, the time I spend alone has great value; after all, I do most of my writing in peace without the distraction of others to cloud my thoughts. Yet without exploration of the nature of human relationships, and the wonder of being with other beings who have the same base existence as I do, I cannot hope to love. There is joy in understanding the nature of human community, whether it be with a close friend or a stranger met on the street. I must safeguard myself from falling into complete solitude, for though comforting it may be, there are things that are not worth sacrificing. I am glad for Dorin, for he has shown me the importance of making time for oneself, but even more for the realisation that there are some things in which we are very different.
August 14, 2004: Aldreth's passion
I finished A Telling of Stars this afternoon and I have at least three musings worth of ideas to work through. Yesterday, I read how Jaele left Dorin to complete her quest for vengeance. With the shonyn village behind her, she quickly made her way to Fane, a city on the border of the ocean; it was the focal point of her quest. Within a chapter she had met two more men, and by the end of the second, she had experienced a romantic encounter with one of them. I was, for the first time in the novel, proud of Jaele because she felt remorse for the way that she had acted. Something else, though, was bothering me, and had since the beginning of the book. Every time that she began to love someone, he was taken from her, either by a cruel turn of events or by her own decision. By the time that I had reached this point in my reading, I did not have much hope that Serdic and Jaele would be able to be happy together, as much as I longed for it. As Jaele put it on the second to last page of the entire story, "I cannot truly hold anyone." Though the context was different, I wonder if there is not truth in it as well.
The reason for my yearning is this: I saw Serdic in myself, just as I had in every person that Jaele longed for. Serdic, a frail young man content to live his life as it is laid in front of him, and who takes such joy in Jaele's company, is very much symbolic of my loneliness and need to rest. Dorin, whom I have explained before, is a wanderer, holding a secret. He is my mystery and my freedom. Aldreth, somewhat of a prophet from a desert tribe, embodies my passion in many ways. And Ilario, though never having a current of emotion with Jaele, reminds me of my own frailty and resignation. I see all of them when I look in the mirrior; I see myself as their completion. That is why examining the results of their encounters with love is so important. Perhaps by learning what these aspects of their nature, and my own, led them to will give me a lesson that is both worth keeping and worth reading.
I will begin with Aldreth, since he was the first to love Jaele. In this case, the "heat of passion" is taken literally, as his tribe worships fire. There are many times that the two of them show their feelings for each other, and Jaele feels at rest in his arms. Unfortunately, in the middle of a battle, Jaele is knocked unconscious and Aldreth is ripped from her. By the time she awakens, she has no strength to seek him out, even if he is still alive, which is doubtful. His passion to protect his people separated him from Jaele. More generally, I would say that a man's passions may be divided, and keep him from the love that he seeks.
Passion is an extremely difficult thing to define, and even more difficult to control. I have often been described as passionate, and it seems to me that those who have this trait have less control of themselves than some might wish. Many ancient beliefs held that a man's passions would control him unless he kept them in balance, and in Star Trek culture it is the very tenet of Vulcan society. Certainly Aldreth was a man of courage, and anyone reading about him would consider his life worthwhile. Yet the commitments to which his passion bound him gave him a degree of helplessness. This may have been embraced, but the chains of passion were still there.
It often chances that our passion, no matter where it lies, asks us to do things that require sacrifice. It may be a good thing; in fact, self-sacrifice is nearly always beneficial to us in one capacity or another. The fact remains, though, that love may be something lost in the process. Passion is one of the greatest gifts I have been given, and I am always thankful for it. I would not wish it had not been granted, but what I have learned from Aldreth is that my passion may be somewhat of an obstacle to the love I yearn for, even though it would be one of my greatest means to its expression. I am not sorry for this, only glad for the affirmation of things not worth throwing away.
August 12, 2004: Turning sorrow into dancing
Yesterday was an interesting experience. I had my orientation at university, which has put me in a state of great excitement, but that is not what I want to write about. Last night, as is my custom, I walked to the park to read, and I heard the sound of some guitars being tuned. I said to myself, "oh no, not again," thinking that it would be the Punk in the Park concert, but then remembered it was only Wednesday. Since sometimes the music can be soothing, I sat down on a bench and began to read.
I did not get much reading done; I recognized and enjoyed the music too much, and ended up sitting much closer to the gazebo where the band was playing, even doing a bit of dancing and singing myself. There is a fountain in the middle of the park, with trees hanging overhead, and sometimes I close my eyes and listen to the sound of it, even just the breeze among the leaves. There were more sounds last night: bird calls, guitar chords, the small chatter of people enjoying themselves. I usually frown upon that kind of atmosphere, preferring uninterrupted solitude. Yesterday, though, I enjoyed watching the things around me. There were some children running nearby, chasing each other through a line of bushes. People grasped coffee mugs while talking with friends, both old and new. They all seemed to be in a great sense of peace and rest, and suddenly I realised that I felt the same way too.
Then the strangest thought came to my mind, both confident and suprising: I realised that I wished Connie was there. I imagined the rare times that I had been with her, walking the streets of Collingwood, or perhaps going to a swing set just outside of Peterborough. I felt a peace last night that was just as complete as the times spent in her company, and was shocked to realise that the night would have been even better if she had been there with me. In the midst of that great calm, I missed her and no one else. I still enjoyed myself in the time after this realisation, but had much more to think about, because I normally do all that I can to avoid turning my mind to her.
I cannot explain where the longing to have her next to me came from. One possibility is that the last time I felt that sense of peace with people around me, she was holding my hand. It could be as simple as the fact that she is one of the few people who I ever felt could simply sit with me, even in silence, and take joy therein. There are likely dozens of more explanations, but simply the fact that it happened at all challenges me to think about one thing: I felt last night like I did a year ago.
My friends would likely give me a number of meanings for this, anything from moving past my pain to opening myself up to people again. I still enjoy solitude most of the time, and Connie certainly still causes me pain. As I write this, I am talking to her, and despite the almost happy vein in which our conversation runs, a part of me wants to burst from grief. All the things that I had hoped for us, the dreams I had which can now never be shared with her, are gone, and this creates a void inside of me. I am on the verge of tears now. What I believe last night means is a move towards a new kind of friendship with Connie. I believe that I am finally able to sit with her again. We can go for coffee or take a walk in the park, and in time I may even be able to dance with her. The pain will still be there, and as I have meditated on before, I believe it can be a gift to her. It is time for us both to see this as a blessing, and not in word only. I hope that our friendship be true to the words I've spoken about her so many times: "though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."
August 10, 2004: No safety harness
My favourite video game of all time is, without a doubt, Final Fantasy VI. It's the title that got me hooked on the genre, and there are parts of it that get me all choked up. The opera scene, as I've mentioned before, brings me to tears every time, no matter how many times I watch or sing it. It stands far and apart from almost every other game I've played; only a few can boast to be on the same level as the quest to throw down Kefka and deliver peace unto the world. As you can imagine, I've played the game many times, but every time something new happens to make it worth working through again.
Yesterday I had a peculiar experience that definitely qualifies. After the major climax, in which the world is literally rearranged and thrown into a state of chaos, a woman named Celes finds herself stranded on an island with only her foster grandfather. It has been a year since the catastrophe and Cid is almost out of strength, so she decides to help him. At this point I regained control of Celes, and I had to continually go to the coast to find fish to feed him. It's random what kind of fish appear, whether good, bad or neutral, but it's not particularly difficult to nurse the old man back to health; it just takes some time.
My mouth dropped open when I went in and out of the screen multiple times and found nothing but rotten fish. Cid was deteriorating rapidly but needed to be fed something, so I gave him what I had. My luck, if luck it was, continued to be bad. When I saw his still and unmoving form on the bed, I couldn't believe my eyes. Celes went into a rage and denial, overcome with grief, and then walked away from the hut to a cliff on the north end of the island. From a note her grandfather had left, she learned that others had given up hope and cast themselves to their deaths. I can't possibly explain in such a small space all of Celes' history, but let it be enough to say that her life had been anything but idyllic. After reading the letter, she fell into despair and moaned that no one was left to live for. Even the man who had sworn to protect her was gone, and so with a heartbreaking theme playing in the background, she jumps off of the cliff. I was so shocked; I was expecting someone, something to stop her. My heart lurched.
After a long silence, Celes awakened on the beach. She sees a bird that somehow had saved her life, and curses it. I thought she would jump again. Then she looks at the bird again, sees it carrying a headband, and recognizes it as belonging to the man that swore to protect her. She sees it as a sign of providence, for it's my belief that she was at least beginning to love him, and her hope is renewed. She finds a raft that Cid had left behind and takes it to the mainland, there to begin a quest to find her friends.
The story continues from there just as it would had Cid lived; oddly enough, his life or death has no outcome on the story in the slightest. Yet something bothered me. It was as if the story were no longer right, like I could not have a "perfect game" anymore. What happened on the island was beautiful, yes, and in every way I found it more touching than the normal outcome, but he had died. It had never happened before. Even though the outcome was based on pure dumb luck, I still felt as if I had lost, just as much as if I had been killed in battle. I didn't like that feeling, so my hand reached towards the reset button on my Super Nintendo. Inches from it, I looked and saw Celes standing there on the coast. I saw my fingers ready to push and erase all that had happened to her: the struggle, the sorrow, the newfound purpose, and I couldn't do it. Some might call it an overly emotional reaction to a simple video game, but it's more than just a game; it's a story that touches my heart, just as any book could do. It would be as bad as if I had stopped Bilbo from finding the ring in The Hobbit. I'm not qualified or willing to make the history, and everything it means, as if it never happened. There is too much at stake to toss it aside on my own whim.
Celes' story is very much my story, which might explain why I found it so difficult to change her history. It's been my experience that even wishing that things had been different is an unwise course, because of how God uses everything, especially the unpleasant times, for his own glory. That is why almost everything I have suffered through I count as a blessing. Almost is a word that complicates all of this. There is one thing that I cannot honestly say that I would not change if I had the chance, and that is my relationship with Connie. I know that all of this musing, and especially my reaction to erasing Celes' struggles, shows me that I cannot act rightly and still regret it, but my heart does not always follow logic. I still wish as if it had never happened, as if I had never had any feelings for her, despite all my words of the beauty of the loss of her and how lucky I am to be able to love her still. My mind knows it, but my heart won't accede.
I know that there is too much at stake to lose. I have gained an understanding of myself, and a new joy in solitude, that I never could have attained without the loss of love that Connie brought me. There are other beautiful things about it, some that I have already mentioned, and others I have no words for, but at the heart of it all, the pain is too much. Simply put, I can't make my heart say it's okay. Others, and even my mind, can say that these things happen, but it is no consolation. I know this is selfish, and I have nothing to say to excuse me. This is simply the way that I am. Perhaps more time, and the public admission of my regret that I have done here, will change my heart, but the time has not yet come. The only comfort I have is that I have been honest and true to myself. I hope that this redeems me in some small way, and that there is some mercy and understanding. Goodness knows I need it.
August 10, 2004: Refusal to commonality, part two
Right now I'm listening to Into the West by Annie Lennox, which you might know is the closing song to the movie of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. It's a beautiful song; even more than the fact that it was Tolkien-related, it's so well done that I stayed in the theatre to watch all of the credits roll. There's a feeling of peace, and just a bit of regret, to the lyrics, and it echoes a lot of my feelings about life, and love in particular. Here's some of the words that demonstrate what I mean:
Lay down your sweet and weary head
Night is falling, you've come to journey's end
Sleep now and dream of the ones who came before
They are calling from across a distant shore
Why do you weep? All of these tears upon your face
Soon you will see all of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms, you're only sleeping
It's true there's a bit of melancholy to the song, but I believe that without pain nothing can be truly appreciated. To quote Haldir, "though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater." This is probably why Into the West touches me so deeply; there is definitely sorrow involved, but the picture that is painted of taking one's appointed rest is wonderful, and makes me desire to just sleep in peace against someone that I love.
Every time I'm honest with myself, and musing has forced me to do so, I prove more and more how much I want this. I don't think that anyone I know feels as I do when I read words of love as it was meant to be. I'm an extremely passionate person, which means that I feel both love and grief to their limits. I say the first of those extremes hypothetically, and the second from experience, and that is why I am so apprehensive about being open to what I need so much. I want to be loved but I've never experienced it; rejection has always walked hand in hand with an open mind to love. That is why I think that no one can blame me for the view I've had of the issue, until now.
I needed to learn these things myself. There are a lot of people who have been trying to change my mind, some by forceful means and others less so, but I had to realise for myself the difference between what I want and what I need. It is I who had to awaken, and no one else could do it for me; no amount of arguing or debating would have availed. I knew this from the beginning. I say this not to extol my own wisdom, but to explain to my friends, who cared too much to sit by and do nothing as I became more and more apathetic, why I seemed so stubborn and insensitive. If you are one of those people, then I hope now you can learn to trust me.
Two nights ago, I was at a young adults service, and talking with a few people, someone jokingly said that one of the girls at the table should date me. She was a good-looking girl with a wonderful personality, and most importantly she loves the Lord like too few of the Christians I know. I shocked myself by the speed and brutality of my response: turning down all possibility of it without even thinking. It was as if rejecting love had become a reflex. The suprise was so great that I felt the need to think more about the issue, and the result was the two most recent musings. It showed me that my apathy was beginning to assert itself, which served as a warning.
I do not think that my reflexes are going to change overnight. It may take time for me not to toss away any real hope of love, just as it took time for that same hope to fade. And even when I am again what many would consider healthy, I will be more cautious than most and have expectations that some will consider too high. Today, though, I am hopeful for the future, and more importantly, I have attained some wisdom. I feel peace.
August 9, 2004: Refusal to commonality, part one
I'm not sure exactly where to begin, because there are two distinct things in my life right now that speak about the same subject. First, I suppose, is the book I'm reading. It's called A Telling of Stars and it's a new fantasy novel by Caitlin Sweet. It's really opened up my mind to the importance of keeping a journal of my thoughts and the things I've learned when reading a new book. This is my first attempt to do that. I won't ruin the entire book for you, as if I even could considering I'm not done it yet, but a girl named Jaele lived a perfect life until her family was murdered by a raiding party. One of the marauders was left behind and flees from Jaele, who swears to follow and kill him. She tries to find people to help her, but no one is both willing and able to do so.
A companion she met along the way, Dorin, left her for a time but rejoined her later. From the very beginning there was some kind of a spark between them, but don't mistake this for a romance novel; it's anything but. Still, as I was reading, I couldn't help but long for the two of them to love each other. When Dorin leaves her, running from what I still don't understand, I felt immensely saddened, and when Jaele began to have feelings for another man she met, I became angry. Upon their reunion, I felt warm.
It is a pagan setting, so I'm not going to suggest that everything that the two of them do are things that I agree with. Their love, when it bloomed, still made me smile, though. I could feel the tenderness between the two of them shown in the smallest gestures: tracing circles in each other's palms, him stroking her hair, her laying contentedly against his chest. She loved him so much that when he was holding her, she even forgot about pursuing the man who murdered her mother. It was, and is, so very real to me.
The question I ask myself now is why. What is it about this book that touches me so deeply? How do I explain the realness of the words I read that make me feel as if I were Dorin? These are the questions I need to answer, because it is almost as if I can feel Jaele resting against me. Just the thought of it gives me strength and joy. Even as I type these words, I know the answer: because it is what I long for. When I write, I demand complete privacy, and people steer clear of me. No one comes anywhere close during my reading time in the park. Even in a crowd I seem to be distanced, and so I give every appearance of wanting complete solitude. Yet, though as before I may regret displaying these words, it is of love that I think. My mind is not on mathematical formulae or historical significance when I stare into nothing, completely focused. It is on what Dorin and Jaele had. It is something that I desire so much that writing on the subject now is difficult enough to bring me to tears.
If you know me, you know my resolve to avoid even the possibility of love, because of what has happened to me in the past. I have chosen to lose the possibility of pain and bliss. I choose some middle ground, some apathetic. As you might imagine, this is a contradiction of my needs and desires. The smallest look at what I have written in the last week can show how much I think about and want love, and yet I have denied myself even the possibility of that hope ever being realised. Right now, my decision seems foolish.
I don't know if I am being realistic at all, because it is a fantasy book I am reading. Yet it has reopened my mind, and my heart, to what love can be when there are no chains on it. Perhaps I needed to see a story on which I could not lay the cords of my past to realise this. I don't know if I'm yet prepared to make myself an open book. In fact, this story is making me realise how precious and rare the thing that Dorin and Jaele had is so that I hesitate to use the word "love" and make it common. I am convinced, though, that to shut myself off from all hope of it is a mistake, not for any of the myriad of reasons that friends have told me, but because of this simple fact: it would be the death of me.
August 7, 2004: Unbreakable
I've been thinking a lot lately about how important trust is for truly deep and fulfilling friendships. It's my belief that it's the ultimate test of a friendship when a person will do something for a friend that they don't agree with. When devotion passes opinion, the unbreakable is born. There are at most two people in my life that I can say that I trust implicitly, who I feel sure would do anything for me regardless of what they thought of the situation or how it would affect them.
I was talking this morning with someone and I couldn't help but feel untrusted. We were discussing a multitude of subjects, but through it all, it was as if I were being looked down upon. I don't doubt that this person's intentions were good, but she worries about me far too much. We talked about how I feel the need to keep Connie at arm's length, and she simply was not convinced. Then came the subject of relationships, and again my decision to keep away from them at all costs went completely misunderstood. No matter what the topic was, she seemed to feel the need to warn me not to punish myself unnecessarily. I felt as if I were five years old, being lectured on fire safety by a parent. One quote in particular stands out in my mind: "I can just see you looking back in several years and cursing yourself for it. That's what really bothers me." What bothers me is that she doesn't trust my judgment enough to make decisions about my own life.
I know that I've made some pretty radical decisions lately, most notably the choice to keep away from a relationship no matter what the price. The quote mentioned above came from my saying that if a girl fell for me, I would pity her and then let her down, explaining that it could never work. But I also know that there's nothing quite like the confidence I feel now. I know that my decisions are right. What I feel when I realise that this person, along with many others, does not trust me, is that the trust most of my friends have in me exists only so long as my decisions are in agreement with their opinions. If that seems too harsh, then I will relent slightly and say that their trust in me is true only so long as my decisions lead me to fall in line with what the rest of society does. When it comes to my decisions about romantic love, I do neither: my friends disagree with me and it's not similar to what the rest of the world does; namely, open themselves up to love.
There are at best two people in my life who would help me to carry out this decision, though neither of them completely agrees with it. In today's popular culture we often talk about unconditional love. I believe that unconditional trust is what make my friendships with these people irreplaceable. They have chosen to lay down the pride that would make them try to continually change my mind, and have opted instead to humbly serve me, just as I would serve them.
I am so used to having to defend my reasoning for my decisions about love that this musing almost turned into a persuasive essay. But as my thoughts turn to these people, my raring-to-go debating mind gets shoved aside, because with them I don't need to explain myself. Neither do they have to explain themselves to me, because our honour and respect for each other is enough. I feel at rest and at my very best when I am with them. I can do what I am meant to do without any fetters, and that is a gift I hope that I give to others as well.
To true friendship, then, and to trust.
August 6, 2004: Furthering the symbol
Sometimes people can be too stubborn for their own good. They will feel so horrible about something that they become accustomed to the pain, and begin to prescribe it to themselves. Pain, after all, can be comfortable if it is the only thing that is familiar. And so sometimes a person will associate things unnecessarily with the object of their discomfort. You might call me a hypocrite for saying these things, citing the fact that I certainly do them myself. And that I do not deny. I simply want to admit my stupidity, and some explanation was necessary.
As you might imagine, it is my ex-girlfriend that I associate far too many things with. I've already explained the connection between her and the moon. As I was walking home today, carrying my lunch, I was mumbling some nonsense to myself, and I started talking in my Gollum accent. If you know me at all you are likely familiar with it. A few choice phrases escaped my mouth, the most famous of which is "my Preciouss." I also said "we don't need you." The first was with Gollum, the evil half, and the second with Sm�agol, the still not completely conquered good side. It might be saying something about my character that I can do the former much more accurately than the latter. Then again, it might just be a coincidence. Either way, I started thinking some more about this, and thought of Connie.
The weekend that I started dating her, we had watched The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers along with Rachel, Sarah, Mindy, Crys and Jay. I had just bought the Extended Edition and had held out on watching it for four whole days so I could watch it for the first time with my friends. I should be applauded for such an act of discipline. Dating has its priveleges, I have to admit; Connie and I got an entire couch to ourselves while the rest of the group scrounged for seats among another couch and the floor. It probably had a great deal to do with the movie we were watching, but as she lay her head against my chest and watched the movie, I started mumbling in Gollum's voice to her. I ran my hands through her hair and said, "My Preciouss," and I am told it was extremely cute. I won't repeat any of the other things I did while we were dating, Tolkien related or otherwise, that constitute my veritable bonanza of cuteness. I have heard quite enough of the word to last me several lifetimes.
It is enough to know that Gollum's words of "My Preciouss" were a way of me identifying with her. If you know anything of the outcome of the books, you know that warning bells should have rang in my head. They didn't, because I was too blinded by the ecstasy of being in a relationship. But that is not the point of this musing.
I admit to myself, only now, that when I said those words, it was as much because she was precious to me as because being in a relationship itself was precious. Don't get me wrong. I cared for her deeply, more than even she realised, but when it comes to the symbol of Gollum, it was also a symbol of love in general, not just of her. This was probably a mistake, because it could have led me to start treasuring her for the love she gave me, and not for who she was, but I was fortunate and kept safe from that particular danger.
One night as I was walking, I said three words to myself. "Reclaim the moon." I wanted to be able to see it and appreciate its beauty without thinking of Connie. I wanted the symbol to be gone. The only thing that night taught me was that it is impossible. But today, thinking about Gollum and the symbol of Connie that he is, I realised that what is possible is for the symbol to be furthered. What once meant only comfort turned to inconsolable loss on more than one occasion. But this is not the end either, for as I mumbled today, walking through the park, I said, "we don't need you," and realised that I meant it. It isn't that I don't need Connie, or her friendship; she is a far better friend than I can boast of having been to anyone. I wrote above that Gollum was also a symbol of love in general, and it is to that mentality that these words are directed. I take joy in being free of the chain of a relationship and the chain of the desire for it too. Every day, I am happier in my solitude. I feel freed of the expectations of others, and I can give a peaceful sigh that is too rarely heard in this world.
You might call this my most uplifting and hopeful musing yet. I would be inclined to agree. But it is not just words of flowers and laughter and white picket fences that I speak, for I am challenged too. Since I know that Gollum, a symbol of mirth turned to sorrow, was brought back to joy again, I cannot forget that the same can be true of so many other things in my life, and not just symbols. It is of a symbol, though, that I am most convicted about now: the moon. Just as it was a symbol that stirred my soul more than Gollum ever could, so I believe my joy will be greater if I turn it back into a reason for dancing and not for tears. Perhaps it is time to reclaim the moon, but not to apathy.
August 5, 2004: Aeris
I seem to have lately been using the strangest things to start out my musings. Today will be no exception, because it has to do with video game music. I'm listening to my Final Fantasy mixes, which involve music from the first seven games. In two of the three songs, they use a theme from Final Fantasy VII. The first time you hear it, you think to yourself "oh, that's pretty." By the end of the first disc, if I hear it, I end up crying. When that song is played as a girl named Aeris dies, it never means the same again. In the midst of other songs that I know and love, the Aeris theme plays, and I invariably begin to get wet eyes.
Perhaps it's because I overanalyze just about everything, but I know now, and knew almost right after I saw her die, why it's so tragic and indeed devastating. I'm not the only one who finds it so; if you mention the video to anyone who has played the game you will get a similar response. Why it's so heartbreaking is that, to me at least, Aeris was the perfect girl. I might as well be blunt and say that she's my perfect girl. Perfect timing; there goes the song now. When she dies, a sword through her chest, the main character, Cloud, says something to the effect of "now she will never laugh, smile or cry again." When I read those words, or heard them, because I could have sworn I did, it was like Cloud (or was it me?) was saying that he would never do those things again either. It was as if the loss of such perfection, such beauty, meant that his life could never be perfect again, not even during those rare moments when we lack nothing.
If you know me well, you know who I'm thinking of as I write this. Though the person who I cannot help but imagine as I think about Aeris is not dead, the love is. Sometimes I envy Cloud in a way, for he could let her go. I cried as I watched her float to the bottom of the lake in the Valley of the Ancients. I was too blinded by grief to think about anything but the loss, and that has a double meaning. This is where Cloud and I part ways, because for me there is no returning. There came a time when he could no longer touch Aeris while he still drew breath. He was forced to look forward, because she was not part of it. In my case, though, no matter where I look, this emblem of lost love is still a part of my life. Her skin is warm, her hair still smells sweetly. And as I have meditated on before, she is a part of my life whether I will it or not. I have not the blessing of Cloud, of being able to call on the memory of her and bathe in its beauty. The present is anything but.
There is no consolation for this. There is a kind of tragic beauty to my loss, in the same way that the death of Aeris draws people to witness its magic, agonizing though it may be. This is the same reason that I play the opera in the previous game, though it brings me to tears too.
Perhaps I am not as selfless as I sometimes wish to believe. I affirm that Cloud has been the more fortunate of us, and yet there is a blessing for me as well. I have an opportunity that he does not: she is alive. I can witness the beauty and perfection I see in her still. It may be the case that seeing it causes me grief, but I can still look upon her. If I had the chance, I am confident that I would choose to live Cloud's loss instead of my own. Yet more important than this is the truth that I can give the gift of adoration that Cloud no longer can. Aeris cannot receive it, for it would fall on a heart that does not beat. I am not so unlucky.
I may have to watch her from a distance. I may even have to keep her at arm's length when she would not have it so. The gift, though, will still be given continually. I will adore the beauty and perfection that she never sees, and be content. I retreat into a life of solitude, by necessity and choice, and take greater joy therein than I would have thought possible when I lost her. Simply put, I will love her.
And I will love who I am too.
August 4, 2004: The power of frailty
My sister left an interesting message on the wipeboard in my room today, followed by the signature "from your secret admirer." Unfortunately for her, Katie's handwriting is a bit too unique, and I've seen far too much of it, for her to fool me. Not to mention that I know of no one else who uses the word "buttface" and cannot come up with a slightly more injuring insult.
You might be asking yourself where I'll be going with this. My mind is very orderly today, so I already largely know the ansswer. Today I went to watch Spiderman 2 again, but this time I went with Amy and Neil. Throughout the entire movie, Amy and I were exchanging comments about how Peter and Mary Jane were being absolute morons, one by virtue of playing mind games and the other because of absolute refusal to tell the truth, made even worse by trying to justify that dishonesty. Fear and awkwardness complicated things greatly. It would have made life a lot simpler, and likely much happier, if the two had just told each other their feelings from the start. Fear and awkwardness complicated things greatly; they are the only things I can find any fault with for making the two of them dishonest and in some ways cruel. That is, of course, unless I can fault the lovers themselves.
I suppose my topic for tonight is secret admirers. I already talked this evening with a friend who secretly had feelings for me for more than half a year before she revealed them. So the matter is rather fresh in my mind, you might say. What my mind says about secret love is quite clear: I hate it.
I detest the mind games, whereby people try to make others jealous and so admit their true feelings. I can't stand those people who enjoy toying with people like that. I guess you can call it flirting. Goodness knows I do some of it myself, albeit unintentionally. But that doesn't make it right.
I'll grant that there are some things involved with the apprehension of having feelings for someone that can actually add to the sweetness of returned love. To quote the movie, "the way she looks at you, or doesn't look at you" is something that both makes my anti-cute warning bells go off and makes me also long desperately for it to happen to me. I know I'm a hopeless romantic at heart, and the above words are a part of my dream of love.
It's funny, I hadn't planned for this musing to go this way. I was simply going to explain how foolish and dangerous flirting can be. But now something both important and unheralded has comed to my thoughts: without frailty, love is incomplete. Take any love story, real or imagined, that is dear to you. It is frailty that will draw you to it. The more impossible love appears to be, the more sweet it is when the hope of it is finally realised. It is a mystery, beyond the words of this muse to explain, but there is something complete about frailty in love. Somehow, the weakness that comes from humbling oneself and acknowledging our positions as God's creations allows us to love, which is after all God's greatest quality.
I dont' know tonight how the frailty that is evidenced by fear and doubt makes love more complete, yet I am still certain of it. All that I can think of right now are the words I once said to someone I loved. I said, "I'm not made of glass." Maybe that was the problem, for if I am not frail, then I cannot love. And in that statement, more of my questiosn are answered than you could guess.
August 3, 2004: Of Star Trek wisdom
No movies over the last few nights, though I do want to see Spiderman 2 again. I'm simply sitting at my computer, feeling like I should write an entry here. However since my bed isn't yet made and thus my room is not clean or fit for my writing, I'm doing it straight in the website editing page. I'm not really sure about what I'm going to talk about, so this will be very impromptu.
Star Trek always seems to speak to me pretty powerfully. I don't think there's a single entity in media that makes me think about things, even love, as much as Gene Roddenberry's creations. The reason I say this is twofold. First is the Voyager episode I watched yesterday, where Janeway and Chakotay get a disease that forces them to live out their lives on a planet while the crew continue the road home. You might think it would be the self-sacrificial attitude that encouraged me, but it wasn't the case at all. You see, after a while it becomes evident that Chakotay has feelings developing for his former captain. She resists it at every turn, even the mostly subtle things, but it just doesn't seem to be working. Situations keep popping up where he plays the hero, the perfect man even, without meaning to do so in the slightest.
Janeway has been researching the insects on the planet to find a cure for their illness, and her back has been killing her, so Chakotay gives her a massage and stops suddenly, just savouring the moment, half-holding her. She withdraws again and then in the morning the two of them decide to talk about the tension between them. Chakotay tells her a story that explains how his life was peaceful only after he met her, and that by serving her he found great joy.
Then comes the part that gets me choked up. She stares at him with this expression of wonder, and raises her hand towards him. He does the same and they clasp. It's not as if they suddenly have this great outpouring of love for each other, but it gives some hope, and it made me smile. A few days later, they get a call from their ship, saying that a cure has been found and that Voyager will be back within two days.
The two of them pack everything up, change back into their uniforms, and the final moments of the episode show the two of them going back into their routines as if nothing had happened. Duty, it seems, kept them apart, and so the hope of their future together, and the smile on my face, were gone. This isn't the only example of times that I've been saddened by the outcome of love in Star Trek. Something similar happened to Picard in The Next Generation. In fact, most of the time that characters devote themselves freely to love, it ends in ruin. And so, it makes me wonder about my own life.
I asked myself a few days ago, "is there a Mary Jane for me?" and to be honest, I might already know the answer to that question. I don't doubt that there's a fairly good chance someone will love me like I need to be loved sometime. When I start school in a month, I'm going to meet a lot of new people, and I can't count out that possibility. I wonder, though, if it will be possible for me to return that love. More than once even in my own life, I've had to turn back on the chance of a relationship because my duty required it of me.
There has always been something obstructing the love that I need from another human being. I won't name names, but reasons include simple rejection, my duty to date only Christians, a girl being incapable of that love, distance, the list goes on. Now I envision the next problem being that I won't get into a relationship because if things didn't work out, it would compromise my service to the Lord. I'm not willing to risk that. I'm at the point in my life where I would only date someone who would love me like I need, but also serve God so much that they would whack me upside the head if I was allowing my pain to compromise my mission, even a little bit. I need someone who will love me, yet spare me no compassion if I lose even a tiny fraction of my impact for Christ. And to know that she will stick by me even if I try to push her away. She has to be someone who cares about me more than anyone else in the world, but who doesn't let that affect her judgment.
You probably think I'm asking a lot. I am. I still believe, somehow, that person is out there. I certainly haven't met her yet, and my hope may wither for a time, but what I know of God, and this orderly mind he's given me, are telling me that it's only logical. I don't serve a God of stupidity; he makes sense.
And that's the other reason I thought of Star Trek today. I took a quiz, and apparently I'm Spock.
July 31, 2004: Lessons from the moon
Would you believe that I actually saw another movie tonight? I went to see The Village. Great movie, by the way; I highly recommend it. I'm not writing tonight because of being moved by the film, though, wonderful as it was. Spiderman 2 still has me thinking, after all.
After several intense rounds of Super Smash Bros. Melee at Kevin's, I walked home. Today, especially this morning, I've been experiencing this intense sense of peace. I couldn't stop playing worship songs, and even when I wasn't, I was just blissful. So with that sense, I walked home, and I felt God's presence, like a shield protecting me, and yet also making me aware of him. I couldn't see any stars in the sky at all; it was as if there was this dome of God's power stretching around me, just farther than my eye could see. And then I started in shock as I looked to the east.
The moon. Bright, full and yellow. Not high in the sky, either; it was just above the rooftops of the houses, and it played hide-and-seek with me between the trees in the yards of a dozen city blocks. Yes, I was aware that the moon was proof that I was not encompassed by a dome so much as a hedge that would protect but not obstruct me. And yes, I looked straight above, and saw dozens of stars glinting overhead. And yes, I still felt God's presence. I am even reminded of some Scripture as I recount it:
"You hem me in -- behind and before,
you have laid your hand upon me."
But above all, in the midst of this glory, I felt great melancholy. For to me, the moon is still a symbol of lost love. Someone wrote a poem about me, comparing my faith and reflection of God's glory to that floating orb, and as comforting and wonderful as those words were, now the moon is a symbol of her too. The memory of her does not comfort me as her old words do. And so I smile and grimace in the same instant when I see the moon.
I felt as if the moon were intruding on the loveliness of that peaceful, worshipful atmosphere that I was enveloped in as I walked home. The melancholy was unwelcome. Yet these thoughts were immediately followed by the realisation that without the yellow light, I would never have seen God's protection tonight as something protective but not obstructive. I learned a lesson from it, a painful reminder of lost love though it is.
I often feel as if the person connected with the moon is also an intruder. I am not afraid to admit, to a crowd even, that I often wish she were gone, that I could see no trace of her. Yet I learn things from her just as I learned because of the moon's intrusion tonight. She sometimes detracts from my relationship with God, and for that reason I would be rid of her. But I also know that I could not have had the profound sense of peace that I did today if she were not around.
If I could, I would probably wish her away. But when I consider what good has come out of this, despite the problems that seem sometimes to outweigh the gains, I am glad that I'm not the one to make that decision.
And so I say to you, Connie: whether I like it or not, you're here to stay. My heart would make me flee from you, for all the pain you cause me, but sometimes listening to the heart isn't the best idea.
July 30, 2004: Is there a Mary Jane for me?
I watched Spiderman 2 tonight, and it's given me a lot to think about, enough even to make me walk the streets of town for a mile or so at midnight to sort it all out.
You see, I can't help but be moved by most good movies. I'm not talking about crying at a chick flick, or gaping wide-eyed at majestic scenes in a fantasy film. This kind of moving is always challenging and often painful. When I watch The Lord of the Rings, I'm amazed by the divine providence given to mankind, and I'm challenged to see and acknowledge that same providence working in my own life. Others move me to take heart and stand firm, to have courage, or even to just learn more. But no matter what the lesson, love always seems to be the underlying theme.
I could go thorugh dozens of movies to explain it, but it would be no more than an exercise in patience for both of us. let it be suffice to say that most films these days challenge my decisions about love considering myself. After all, I've given up on it.
Peter Parker finally reveals his identity as Spiderman, and his love for Mary Jane, to her. In that same moment he lets go of all hope of being with her. Then, when all is forlorn, she leaves her fianc�e at the altar and goes to Peter, saying "I can't exist without you." A Hollywood ending, perhaps. Maybe wishful thinking, even if it is exaggerated. But in stories like these, our own spirits are lifted up, and we believe that anything is possible.
I'm not Spiderman, I promise. I don't have any super powers, but then it wasn't Peter's powers that made Mary Jane fall in love with him, either. That kind of love doesn't happen every day. I've never seen it. But inside my soul, I still believe it's possible. Though I might regret writing this, I still believe it's possible for me. It might be the Spiderman euphoria talking, but right now I can almost believe that the story isn't so far-fetched.
And then I wonder, if I were Peter, where would I be now? Am I at that point, when my beloved is coming already, and it's just a matter of time before she knocks on my door, and I am unexpectedly given the love I hunger so deeply for? Or have I even come to the end of my hope yet? If it's the first reason, then I waon't know it, and so I cannot hope, for it was only in despair that Peter's love came. If it's the latter, then things will get worse before they get better, and I'm already in agony about love. I'd be tempted to say it's the former, and most of my friends would agree with me. They think it's only a matter of time, that the girl to love me is already on her way.
But then, I said I could almost believe it. I'm afraid to, because then I'll have to consciously ask myself the question that paralyzes me with fear:
Is there a Mary Jane for me?
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