MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2009
Life is a curious thing. No matter how you plan it, it seems to have plans on its own. Those of you who know me know that I believe in a supreme and higher conscious pulling the strings of life… but when I talk about life being a curious thing, I am not talking about God. God, as I know him, is straight forward and predictable in his infinite complexities. I’m not even referring to mathematical anomalies that are consistent inconsistencies in a pattern seen through to its bitter end. The curiosity I’m reffering to is that state of a dream where characters that were concieved and derived in the deepest thoughts of your mind can be learned from and gained from as if you didn’t create them. Isn’t it wondrous to think that we can create fantasies and characters which can teach us things that we didn’t know, even though the potential which these stories and ideas possess was packed and plotted by us? Was Tolkein moved by Frodo’s journey as much as Frodo was moved by Tolkein’s imagination? Life is a curious thing in that we can be moved by it just as much as we move it. I find myself spending a good amount of time remembering this truth. Curiosity on my part is often frustration with plans unkept, placed into a context of learning. What I have learned about life is that things only go as you plan them, when you plan for them to go where they need to go. I planned to write this blog every night and it didn’t happen, this isn’t to say that I haven’t tried… hidden within the archive are drafts of unrealized musings which didn’t go as i planned them. And yet, the times when I do write are rarely so structured as my abandoned blogs. They are excercises in flow. Motion given to thought which is mulled in the context of its circumstance like an impromptu picnic rather than a lush dinner party with seven courses laid out within the mind of a chef before it ever touches the plate. As I contemplate my own life and circumstances, I ask myself about the value of both ideals. My values respect and aspire to be the master chef with a dinner in mind that rivals an architects sketches, but when all is said I done I often find myself left with a drawing that might get hung on a referigator rather than a museum. And as I stare at my life and my efforts to conduct this symphony in failure, I can’t help but notice that within the disaster of my shortcomings there is something which is bold and unmistakeable. Within the dischordant boldness, there is uniqueness and character. Within the character, there is personality. Life grows curiouser and curiouser within the context of our willingness to accept ourselves in the context of the moment. The day is not loss when you are lost within it. This is the greater picture, a picture which is authenticated when we recognize our place in it, but never lost when we fail to step past our plans for the whole. The individual dot of a pointilist’s brush carries within it a greater signature than the paint may realize as it sits in a see of blurred images. When we stand at the precipice of anger at our masterpiece ruined, we should remember that we cannot always see what lies beyond our frame of referrence. There is something about this bigger picture that will forgive our marred attempts to control the whole image, and create through us something substantial even in our personal failures. And when we wake from our stupor to find that it was all a dream, do we count it as worthless? No, it seems that the value of curiosity is merited in the motions of our hearts and minds, even when our bodies and our senses cannot seem to fathom it.