Butterflies

It is nearing the end of my third year of university. When I think back on the things that I used to think, and the ideas that I held, and all of my sacred cows from my first year and backward, I feel a bit embarrassed. There's also a small sense of pride knowing that I've come this far and am nearing the finish line. I've got a grad school lined up for in a few years, as I plan to travel in the midterm before moving on to bigger and more specific things.

I've picked up a new, and quite beautiful hobby. Butterfly collecting. Someday when I have children I'll bring them all sorts of intricate, delicate things that come out of nature. I can imagine them admiring the tiny things and finding all that is special about them. There will be feather collections, seashell collections, and stone collections. Colourful leaves and soft-textured fur. Flowers of every shape and scent and hue.

I feel as though this collection is a grown-up version. It's good for me, I think, because moving the wings into position is an exercise in extreme caution and saint-like patience. In fact, all of my butterflies so far have been sub-par... I keep accidentally rubbing the scales off. Hopefully more practice will give way to increased patience, and the lepidoptera will benefit by looking more and more beautiful.

Monologue

We are now nearly one month into the new year. I feel as though the world has left me in October. I'm only partially here, really. It's been an emotional month, certainly, and that's overwhelming for me. I want to be unshakably strong. Lately I feel like I'm trembling.

I spend my days conscious of the mundane routine I'm trying (badly) to fall into. Whenever I have an idle moment I stuff it with course work or internet. Even just now, I opened my email to avoid rereading the last sentence. I'm afraid of hurting, of feeling. I just won't be able to pull myself out of the hole that I know feeling these feelings will put me in.

So, instead of feeling deeply, I've been skating on the thin surface of existing. I feel as alive as a rock.

Brainpickings has beautiful excerpts from the lives of writers. Sometimes I read them to escape from myself for a little while. Their writing is smooth, and always 'cool'. My writing is clunky and banal. I use too many words, and I always pick the ugly ones. If only I could be Virginia Woolf, or Susan Sontag. Then the emotions would just gush out. I imagine that's what it's like to be a real artist. You feel the idea incubating in you, and then it bursts out unrestrained. Why do I insist on compartmentalizing? Why don't I feel safe? Is there anyone who wouldn't think less of me if they knew all of me?

Sometimes I think about love, and the demons all disappear for a moment. Love keeps me up at night. It distracts me through dull classes. It's the emotional morphine I'm self-prescribing. I don't mean to say he's just a distraction -- he's certainly not. I know that if I was brave enough, I could open up about how I'm feeling. He would be patient with me, I just know it, and I'd end up feeling better. But there's something in the way of developing an emotional relationship on that level, sub-affection. He keeps secrets from me. In fact, he's actually open about having them. How can I possibly feel safe?

I secretly believe that fate led me to him. He has the same vices and the same quiet habits as I do. It's like looking into a (gentle) mirror. Because he is so much like me, I can't help loving him. But he contains all the dark, sticky, musty parts of myself that I wish I didn't have. I know he avoids that deep emotional part, just like I do. It's not that he can't speak on it. He knows that it feels liberating (so liberating!) when it happens. It's a question of feeling safe. Will you still love me when you know my heart completely?  

But love can't always blind me. I'm left alone with my thoughts. It feels like standing in a room full of sharp things. So I sit on the floor of that room, and I play idly with my hair and I check my reflection: a tiny Narcissus blooming in the dark. I'm scared of my most intimate self. I'm scared that there's something in me, buried deeply, that will make me cruel and uncaring. I'm scared that I have the capacity be cold. Most of all, I'm scared that the piece that makes the high emotional points of life so... indescribable -- is broken.
It's terrifying to know the self, it really is.

I want to be unshakably strong. I feel like I'm trembling.

Lots of Books, Some Thoughts, and a Sketch

It has been a long time since I've felt a desire to write. Something about today moved me to it.

Over the past year I've been feeling an increasing desire to mature. Mature in every sense of the word -- to outgrow my vices, forgive, grow happy, and cultivate virtues (virtues sounds a little bit grandiose here but I can't think of anything better to call it.) Someone lovely once told me that the game of life is to mature as much as possible in as little time as possible. At the time I hardly believed him, but he's right isn't he? The more I think on it, the more sure I am. My immediate thought was that the elderly always lament the loss of their youth, and so youth must be the most pleasurable period of life. Plato saw through this; I can't remember which dialogue it was exactly, but he points out that not all the elderly are so senile. The pessimism I always associated with old age is undeniably voluntary, if somewhat widespread. So perhaps old age isn't the worst thing possible, but what is it that's gained with maturation which is so intrinsically valuable as to seek it even before the bud has bloomed?

I catch glimpses of it sometimes -- in women like Frau Eva, Charlotte, and the coffee-shop woman who impressed me so much. It's manifested differently in them, and in others like them. When I say I'm seeking to cultivate tact, it's what I'm really seeking. There's a mannerism common to the mature that enriches experience. It's a calm, happy, peaceful feeling that just flows from them. I can feel it when I'm with them, and I believe that everyone has some idea of the energy I'm describing. It feels to me as if mature people are fundamentally okay with however reality unfolds. It's not a jaded sort of attitude that they hold, nor is it cynical. They simply accept how the world has revealed itself. That's almost Eastern, isn't it? Perhaps, and then the meditation and the yoga that I've been doing seem extra important.

Anyway, that's been on my mind -- and certainly occupying the largest spot of real estate there. I've been busy with midterms and school, etc. So far I'm a bit disappointed with my marks. Mostly As, but I did make A+ a goal this year, and I know it's attainable if I stop being so lazy. And hard on myself. Gosh.

It's been a while since I've written a reflection on something I've read. To keep things curt, I'll list my recent reads.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khyyam
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
Poetry by Irving Layton
NurtureShock by Bronson & Merryman
The Alchemist
Pardon My French
A Wrinkle in Time
(others which I can`t recall at this moment)

I picked up Carl Rogers again to facilitate a real internal growth experience for myself. Alongside him are Covey, Carnegie, Hansen, and Savage. I plan on taking detailed notes through each of their works and emerging with a significant gain in self knowledge and empathy. I'm ready to grow up. I want to do it in the best possible way.

I`d like to leave you with my most recent artistic venture. I've picked up the guitar again and I play everyday -- always classical music these days, which is sometimes challenging but always beautiful. I still feel that some of my most pleasurable experiences with creating art are done through drawing. I've nearly completed one of my new year's resolutions this year -- that is, to work my way through a book of Michelangelo's (mostly male) figures. I absolutely love to draw figures now and I plan on dedicating a resolution next year to drawing faces.

Family Fun Night

A cute little book full of ideas for interesting nights at home with children. It's nice to daydream about family life sometimes. Especially interesting for me was the section on last minute activities. Some of the games outlined would be fun to play at work with the kids, especially during camp when the kids are tired.

This is the first book I've finished from a big stack of parenting/child psychology books I borrowed from the library on a whim. The other book I have on play (Playful Learning, Breuhl) is geared more towards games played independently by children. Both types of play are obviously important. I feel like independent play should be a large part of a child's day. More involved play has the potential to really grow the relationship. There are certain games that children can't come up with on their own. Besides, they love to play with adults. Most of the FFN activities were without a learning component. That's good some of the time, though there's a lot of lost potential. Why can't learning always be part of playing? Still, I thought the ideas presented were great bonding activities.

Buddha's Brain

One of the most helpful books I've ever read. A perfect combination of practical advice, buddhist philosophy and neuroscience. I feel like reading this book improved my life.

I'd like to postpone writing a full blog post about the book until I get to read it again.

Siddhartha

Herman Hesse has got to be one of my favorite authors. Lately I've been trying to read more non-fiction, mostly in the area of personal development. Hesse was an exception to the trend. The novel didn't feel so different from the non-fiction, though. Siddhartha's journey follows the Buddha's four noble truths and his eight step path to enlightenment. Hesse's writing is gently instructive, and very evocative. After finishing the novel I felt very open to change, especially in myself, which was a goal of my non-fiction study.

Hesse became a semi-recluse while writing Siddhartha, seeking to find the feeling of enlightenment that the protagonist discovers at the river. Learning this made me wish I could study more Eastern thought. What I'm reading now, Buddha's Brain by Rick Hanson, strengthens that interest. Especially of interest to me is the idea of a deep inner tranquility. Hanson describes the process of cultivating compassion and empathy while still remaining internally unshaken -- almost like an emotional proxy. That makes me wonder about Siddhartha, and about emotional expressiveness in general. Giving voice to emotions must be good. Empathizing the emotions of others is good. Both of these things are nice and it's good to have those experiences close to your heart. I think I would feel further from the people I care about if those experiences were felt through a barrier. But feeling bad emotion is painful, and it often causes damage. Maybe only bad emotions require the proxy. I'm really not sure.

The structure of Siddhartha places most of the novel's message in the last chapter. Until I reached it, I worried that Hesse didn't achieve the same quality with Siddhartha as he did with other works. Of course, Hesse put my suspicion to rest in the final pages.

Hans Brinker

I've really been into the kid's books lately. The happy endings and good morals are a nice contrast to everything else I've been reading. Children's lit and non-fiction are practically incomparable. My goal is to read all of the children's classics my grandparents gave to me when I was a child (about six left).

Hans Brinker reminded me of Little Britches in a lot of ways. Honor was the main theme in both stories. A young boy (Ralph or Hans) befriends someone important who eventually saves the day. Material possessions are constantly sacrificed for the needs of others. I was really pleased to see that, although both were very strong moral stories, Hans Brinker didn't have to turn to religion to find morality.

The narration lends a nice picture of a frozen Holland, right around Christmas time. I enjoyed my day-dream skating through the Hague and Amsterdam. I think I'll pick the book up again around December. It's just too charming.