To Care More About Understanding One’s Self or Being Understood by Others?

Many people are more concerned with being understood by others than with having an understanding of who they are. We put only a fraction of the energy into understanding ourselves compared to the energy put into expecting and wishing to be understood by others.

So many things a person does, while from the outside appearing to demonstrate self respect, self-understanding, and self-contentment are really just covert ways of getting attention, asserting an identity, or promoting an idealized image of one’s self.

And of course many people in response would simply assert and take as granted the fact that he or she does know who they are. But in all likelihood they don’t; and they would not feel the need to assert it if they did since saying so verbally would not make it anymore obvious to the rest of us.

I have a personal interpretation of the word ‘understanding,’ and although it’s not etymologically accurate (at least I don’t think so) it has helped me put some things in perspective.

The word ‘understanding’ can be broken down into ‘under’ and ‘stand,’ or ‘standing under.’ What comes to mind for me is a tree; everything a tree is owes itself to the quality of its roots “standing” underground, under what is visible, and how deep and strong they are able to grow. The ironic part is that this aspect is never seen by anyone, and although the fact that a tree is growing large green and beautiful leaves gives some indication to the quality of its roots, the roots themselves will never be seen, understood or appreciated in quite the same light with respect to the tree as a whole.

Like the roots of a tree, all the self-understanding, self-compassion, and self-recognition a person can give his or her self will always be qualities that no one will ever really see and understand. For most of us that’s not good enough, and we live lives where all our accomplishments, far from being done from a place of self worth and self-appreciation are done for attention and recognition; all things one should first and foremost be able to provide his or her self with.

Ask yourself when you do something great or come to some great realization, or have some great experience: “Do I care more about having had such an amazing experience, having touched some eternal aspect of life, or do I care more about being recognized and being given attention for what I’ve accomplished and experienced?” Ask, “Am I content with knowing my true intention for something was pure, that I did something without anyone knowing, or do I care more about being recognized for what I did?”

Ultimately, no one can see your inner peace, your self-compassion, your inner understanding, your true intentions, and connectedness to life. For many people that’s not good enough, which means caring more about gaining such things from others, which means one really never had them for his or her self to begin with. If you have such experiences then savor them for the sake of your own essence. And of course, share those experiences in the special ways you can, but beware the translation will never be 100% accurate, and that the recognition, love, and satisfaction are first and foremost the responsibility of each and every person to provide to and for themselves.

Why Get Up in The Morning? The Meaning and Non-Meaning of Life

I still remember the day I discovered I would eventually die. I was just a boy staying at my aunt’s house. There was a movie on the television where one of the characters was having a discussion with her relative about death. I don’t remember exactly what transpired in the movie, but I remember asking my aunt if one day I would die as well. She said, “Yes” and I began crying. I was devastated, and it took some consoling before I was able to move on and simply be a kid again. I moved on but the realization stayed with me.

As years passed I became interested in that incident, and I began asking myself what made me continue to go on living despite knowing that it would all come to an end. Surely the realization of death was an intense existential experience for me, but how was it not completely devastating, devastating to the point where continuing to live was pointless? After all, what would be the point if everything came to an end? What was the meaning?

Having a Catholic upbringing many people around me had an answer: things don’t end, your life continues in heaven (if one is “good” enough of course). I can still hear my grandma’s voice telling me when I die I would see the entire family again, they would all be waiting for me; and watching the movie “Ghost” as a kid staring Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore seemed to confirm what she said.

The belief in heaven, probably more than anything, delayed my rejection of Catholicism. It is not that I have completely rejected the belief in one day again being with those one is closest to after death, but the idea of a heaven, of a “life” after death, always seemed too convenient of a belief when it came to answering questions about the meaning of life.

Human beings want meaning, and human beings want a purpose. As Viktor Frankl, the founder of logo-therapy stated, “Challenging the meaning of life is the truest expression of the state of being human.” People want a reason to live and a reason to get up in the morning.

A few months ago a friend of mine told me about his own struggle to do just that, to get up in the morning, to have a purpose in life. The question was not new to me, but it had been awhile since I asked it to myself so directly. And so I asked myself, “Why do I get up in the morning? What is the meaning of life?

There is certainly truth to the fact that people want meaning in their lives or want their life to be meaningful, but I also feel that having to ask the question in the first place almost misses the point. Though the question itself, “What is the meaning of life,” is important, it also seems to me there is a way in which asking the question already betrays the answer or the possibility of finding one. Is not life, that of simply feeling alive, innately meaningful?

When one looks at trees, rivers, oceans, animals, stars, the sun and moon, etc. one realizes that there is no need for any of it, and yet they are; there is no ultimate purpose dependent on things existing as opposed to not existing; there is no need for any of it and yet things are. There may be no ultimate meaning, but perhaps that is what makes everything the more wondrous. All things will eventually pass away and yet all things are anyway. Life is meaningful because it is life.

Asking what makes life meaningful is different from asking what the meaning of life is. The meaning of life is simply to live, but the first question is not easier to answer. That is because one often assumes it depends on what one chooses to do. To answer the first question one assumes that something must be done in order to give life purpose. But the answer should be simpler; life makes life meaningful.

Of course people have to do things to live; one has to eat and drink, have shelter, create social bonds, but one almost always looks at these activities as something one has to “get out of the way first” so that one is free to do something more meaningful and have a “true” purpose instead of finding such activities to be innately satisfying because they sustain one’s life. I am not arguing against having goals, careers, or desires, but there should be an explicit understanding that doing so will probably not give one the lasting satisfaction one seeks; I suspect that simply feeling alive is the only thing that can do that.

One might be initially skeptical of the satisfaction that comes from simply feeling one’s sense of being alive, but if one can do it, he or she realizes that it is enough. A lot of people do not operate from that viewpoint; a majority of people lose contact with that sense of aliveness because most people  become alienated from his or her feelings and from being able to express those feelings either to others or first importantly to one’s self.

Individuals must chose to do something, but the angle from which one operates and choses to do something should be redirected so that what one does stems from a life that one feels to be innately meaningful as opposed to trying to make life meaningful by doing a number of things.

I’ve had a lot of goals in my life, most of them I’ve accomplished, but many of them never gave me the satisfaction I expected. It’s the same for many people I know and have talked to, and many people I’ve read about.

If one reads accounts of famous individuals who left great contributions to society, one might be surprised to learn how at the end of their lives, many of them were dissatisfied or found their accomplishments to be pointless. Many famous people in fact ended up feeling like they did nothing. There is a vast trove of cultural and technological achievements, but most of it has truly been unnecessary, and that is because none of it can ever be as innately satisfying as simply being.

I have come across the writings or teachings of some spiritual people who have laughed off or downplayed many of the cultural and scientific achievements of society. At first I simply thought they were philistines. Now I feel that it is not that they reject culture, science, or the arts, but that they have an innate understanding that what many people attempt to gain through doing and achieving in such areas will not give them what they are looking for.

Almost all of what a person tries to accomplish is often done because he or she thinks that doing so will fill that hole in their life, or will give life meaning. Increasingly I’ve come to realize that it has not been what I’ve done or what I’ve accomplished that’s been satisfying, but how I’ve chosen to be from moment to moment, and I try to keep that in mind as I plan what to do next.

Choosing to Feel Offended and the Illusion of Identity

Today it seems relatively impossible to have a discussion without offending someone. Moreover, it appears increasingly difficult to say or do anything without someone feeling offended. Perhaps this has always been the case, perhaps not, but it should be an obvious reality that one cannot be offended unless one chooses to be offended, and yet individuals often claim to be slighted even when most of the time it is clear that no one is intentionally trying to hurt someone else. In such instances it seems it is no longer about some real aspect of one’s self, or some important issue that needs defending, and more like some fabricated construct that one feels like asserting.

When someone is offended it is because he or she identifies with an issue or with a particular label associated with one side of an issue. That is, a person claims to identify with a specific label; “I am a…” or “I identify as…” Thus one becomes offended because his or her identity feels “threatened.” So the more important question to ask becomes, “Why have an identity?”

Having an identity is associated with being unique, with “standing out,” of being different; but oddly enough the etymology of the word ‘identity’ reveals the opposite meaning. The word ‘identity’ comes from the Latin root ‘idem’ which means “the same.” What one thinks one gains through having an identity is wholly illusory. There is an even better word that stresses the illusion of an identity. The word ‘personality’ is even more revealing. Although the words ‘personality’ and ‘identity’ are not entirely equivalent, there is none the less a huge overlap; both words are used to denote individuality. And yet the word ‘personality’ comes from the Latin ‘persona,’ meaning “mask.” Individuals crave an identity and yet they are only disguises. And still, so much seems to be at stake over having one.

Being without an identity does not mean negating one’s unique qualities and characteristics; it does not negate individuality, and it does not negate one’s right to defend him or herself when being abused to a threateningly high degree. Being without an identity means owning one’s sense of aliveness generated through an awareness and acceptance of one’s feelings. Everything else, all the labels whether they refer to nationality, profession, religion, activism, etc. are truly not real in comparison. Such labels may be useful for the sake of communication, but they are not what a person is.

All identities are inherently meaningless in respect to what every individual is by birth. No raindrop, leaf, or snowflake has to do anything at all to be unique; they just are by virtue of their very being. It is the same for every human person and in fact every living thing; there is nothing any one person needs to do to be unique every person is unique by right of birth; every person is composed of a unique set of characteristics because of a unique individual history against a unique setting and backdrop. The important question is, why is this not good enough?

One does not have to do anything to have a strong sense of self except be able to own and accept one’s feelings, desires, emotions, and thoughts, but these are precisely the very things a person is often running from. This sense of affirming what one is by birth is different from assuming or asserting an identity. An identity is what one asserts when one has lost contact with who and what one really is. It’s what one asserts in order to forget one’s self.

Of course such inherent characteristics as one’s inner feelings are not “flashy” and they do not make one stand out externally as much as one may want, but that is because an individual is not comfortable with his or her inner characteristics; it is one’s inner character and feelings that make one feel whole and yet these are precisely the things one is often running from, often because they involve repressed emotions and painful memories. It is this having to run away that makes “standing out” externally seem like a justifiable and necessary attraction when in reality it is only a façade, an escape. Such behavior is an “acting out,” where ‘acting’ here means “performing a fictional role,” and ‘out’ means departing from one’s inner sense of self.

Many people often try to stand out from the crowd without realizing that before one may stand out from a crowd one must be standing in a crowd. One often assumes that by standing out he or she is asserting an individual identity. But standing out really means standing in since it takes a crowd in order to stand out from a crowd. The consequences of this are that even when one is intentionally trying to be unique and assert themselves, that desire is still dependent on other people, on the crowd; one’s self is still dependent on and mediated through others when the truth is that one does not have to do anything at all.

 Letting Go of Letting Go

A lot of people might say “Well, I have to prove it to myself.” But such a statement is nonsensical. There should be nothing a person needs to prove to his or her self unless this self is actually someone or something separate from who one is; in which case this self represents nothing other than an entity that one is alienated from. A person who is content with him or her self should have nothing it needs to prove to itself. Such a desire only reveals the sense in which a person has no sense of who he or she is, and where, this “myself” that one is attempting to prove something to, represents nothing but a displaced form of something external, probably a parent, peer, or society as a whole.

What Philosophy Has Meant to Me

In February I receive my undergraduate degree in Philosophy. I therefore felt it a better time than ever to briefly express what philosophy has meant to me over the years, and why I’ve always felt attracted to it.

In 2011 I travelled to Turkey. At the hotel in Istanbul my friend and I entered into conversation with two male employees of the hotel who were also university students; the one studied business and the other psychology. After hearing that I studied philosophy one of them replied, “You will have a rich life, and I don’t mean money.” I was floored by his comment. I was floored, not simply because it had been uttered by a young kid, but because such a statement would hardly ever be uttered in America, a place where the use of the word ‘rich’ to denote anything apart from material wealth would be seen as ridiculous or bizarre. Yet other countries value philosophy and acknowledge its worth in ways that are largely alien to American culture as a whole. In other countries it still seems largely understood that material possessions cannot replace the wisdom and satisfaction gained from trying to understand what life is ultimately about, to find lasting satisfaction and not just material comfort, to make life meaningful as opposed to simply making a living.

Philosophy for me has always been about wisdom and not knowledge. This is not to say that philosophy does not inform knowledge, or that knowledge is not important. For me, however, my drive to acquire knowledge has played a secondary role compared to my drive to acquire wisdom, where wisdom is associated with an understanding that gives life lasting meaning.

When we say a person is ‘wise,’ we do not necessarily mean that such a person is smart, though being knowledgeable and being wise are not antithetical. Generally, for a person to be wise means he or she has an understanding of things that encompasses, not just the world of facts, observations, etc. but the world of the living human, human life, or the existential life. A wise person is someone who has an understanding of how to maximize life. Sometimes it is shortened to an understanding of the “real world,” but that too misses the mark for the “real world” is usually in reference to the world of having to make a living, a world that is important, but nonetheless fails to take into account the full human experience.

By a “wise person” one means someone who has the ability to differentiate between what holds a temporary significance and what has lasting value, what can bring temporary satisfaction and what can bring lasting happiness, what one temporarily holds true and what one will come to see of lasting importance. By this it does not simply mean knowing how to make a living but knowing how to make living meaningful; one can make a living and still be left with the question, “What was the point of it all? Was it worth it?” For me, philosophy is about understanding who one is in respect to everything else, the rest of the world, how to find meaning in it. This “meaning” is the aim of wisdom.

Unfortunately, the distinction between knowledge and wisdom is one that is given little attention, even in academic philosophy, though the term ‘philosophy’ itself means ‘love of wisdom.’ Knowledge lays out a set of observations, principles, and facts. Wisdom is what allows a person to apply the later successfully. It is one thing to collect a set of data and draw concluding principles from it, it is quite another to reflect on the ramifications of said principles and successfully apply them to how one decides to live; more importantly, how one decides to give life meaning or purpose; how do the facts inform questions that sit at the core of being human. These are questions that humans end up having to ask about their personal lives; what is the meaning of my existence? What can give it lasting happiness? What do the facts mean to me? How do they inform my actions? Do they make me happy? Such questions are often pushed aside for the sake of more “practical” issues, but with the cost of isolating a person from an acquired understanding of life that can have perennial value.

Philosophy for me also has more of a practical side as well. Though I value it most as a way to understand wisdom, philosophizing nonetheless provides one with a set of skills that I have found applicable to almost every aspect of life. The most frustrating question I, or any philosophy major can be asked, is, “What can you do with a philosophy degree?” It’s frustrating because the answer is so obvious to me – anything one wants. Of course there is no job or profession called ‘philosopher’ like there is for other fields; for instance, one who studies engineering gets a job as an engineer, accounting, an accountant, law, a lawyer. But this quality is philosophy’s strong suit. Whereas other studies are largely defined by what one will become professionally, the study of philosophy is defined by how one chooses to apply the skills learned from it. As such, it is more a way of life. The skills of analysis, critical and imaginative thinking, and assessment are skills that can be applied to anything. There are arguably no fields where the ability to think, assess, analyze, imagine, and critique are not important.

Philosophy has been important for me because it embraces that part of myself which is not simply content with the practical matters of making a living, or obtaining knowledge, but with the part of myself that wants to give lasting meaning to my life, and to understand it deeply when every aspect of it is taken into account.

 The Return

It was one of the last great ironies of the adventure that he chanced to be reading a particular book at such a fortuitous moment. The book was “A Hero With a Thousand Faces” by Joseph Campbell, a book that famously inspired George Lucas to write Star Wars. Chapter 4 titled “The Crossing of the Return Threshold,” of Part 3 “The Return” has these opening paragraphs:

“The two worlds, the Divine and the Human, can be pictured as distinct from each other – different as life and death, as day and night. The hero adventured out of the land we know into darkness, there accomplishes his adventure or again is simply lost to us, imprisoned, or in danger; and his return is described as a coming back out of that yonder zone. Nevertheless – and here is the great key to the understanding of myth and symbol – the two kingdoms are actually one. The realm of the Gods is a forgotten dimension of the world we know. And the exploration of that dimension, either willingly or unwillingly, is the whole sense the deed of the hero. The values and distinctions that in normal life seem important disappear with the terrifying assimilation of the self into what formerly was only otherness…
How teach again, however, what has been taught correctly and incorrectly learned a thousand times, through the millennia of mankind’s prudent folly? That is the hero’s ultimate difficult task. How render back into light-world language the speech-defying pronouncements of the dark… How translate into terms of “yes” and “no” revelations that shatter into meaninglessness every attempt to define the pairs of opposites? How communicate to people who insist on the exclusive evidence of their senses the message of the all-generating void?
Many failures attest to the difficulties of this life-affirmative threshold. The first problem of the returning hero is to accept as real, after an experience of the soul satisfying vision of fulfillment, the passing joys and sorrows, banalities and noisy obscenities of life. Why re-enter such a world? Why attempt to make plausible or even interesting, to men and women consumed with passion, the experience of transcendental bliss? As dreams that were momentous by night may seem simply silly in the light of day, so the poet and the prophet can discover themselves playing the idiot before a jury of sober eyes. The easy thing is to commit the whole community to the devil and retire again into the heavenly rock dwelling, close the door, and make it fast. But if meanwhile some spiritual obstetrician has drawn the rope across the retreat, then the work of representing eternity in time, and perceiving in time eternity, cannot be avoided.”

Thus I found myself reading these pages in the Dublin airport having just arrived from Munich, awaiting my flight back to the States after being away for over a year. Seven years prior I left Iraq for the second time, stopping in Munich before catching the last flight home.I couldn’t help feeling something had gone full circle in the seven years since. And so with inner expectations that I might miss home, I found myself at the US border clearance in Dublin surrounded by other Americans awaiting their departures to a place most of them probably called home:

I went to get some food prior to boarding; Standing in line, I can feel the presence of America; a crowd of poorly dressed and overweight people complaining through horrible American accents (one I regrettably share) about how fast the food is being served. I shudder at the thought of going home as the reality of it crashes down onto me. I desperately begin thinking of a future where imagination alone constructs the parameters of one’s home. I think about my level of French, if it’s any good, how fast I could reach fluency if I decided to move to France. I go through the other countries I’ve been to and those I have a desire to see; could I live in them; doing what; surly something? Is there a foreign woman I could marry to save me from this place?

I board the plane and chance to find myself next to an American gentleman. Unable to hold in my frustration I tell him, “I don’t want to go back to the States.” “Why?” he responds, “You don’t like it?” “No,” I reply. We start talking. It just so happens this man lived in Europe for seven years and moved back to the States in 2009. “ I know exactly what you’re going through,” he says; “I felt the same way when I came back; I still do, but you can’t escape it. It will always be home.”

These are comforting words, but I can’t help and think how none of this was ever about escape. There was nothing to escape from; the trials one must go through, experience, and reflect on, will follow one until the end. Nonetheless I find a bit of respite. I sink into my chair and let out one of those exhalations where the air exits in one loud smoldering tuft, as if the breath itself felt fatigued.

There is no doubt that I’ve come to know of certain characteristics of myself that are a result of the culture I was born into, characteristics that could be called ‘American.’ Amidst crowds of people from other culture and backgrounds one’s own set of attributes and impulses stand out like candle light in a dark room: I am eccentric and passionate; I say things like very delicious or very very delicious – At a gathering amongst both French and English, a French woman told me it’s correct to just say ‘delicious’ and not ‘very delicious.’ I replied that I often say something was ‘very’ or even ‘very very delicious’. An Englishman overheard the conversation and said, “Of course, you’re American.”

I have a sense of humor that can’t resist the possibility of a good laugh even when my sense of humor itself knows it’s a bad idea i.e. Hitler jokes.

I’m unreserved and unrepressed about my thoughts and feelings; an admirable quality I noticed in other Americans abroad. There is a problem of course in that most Americans, although comfortable with voicing an opinion, express views that are often uninformed and ignorant.

Perhaps these are to some extent “American,” perhaps not. Nonetheless, going home I think of possibility. I remind myself of the willingness and drive I have to leave, wander, and explore, and how such qualities will always give me the option to get up and leave when the lust for other worlds becomes too strong to put off, and where ‘home’ can mean more than just a particular culture one was born into.

Life In Exile

Feelings of loneliness and fears of isolation sit at the core of being human. These are feelings I and most people are reluctant to embrace at times, feelings that are a necessary part of becoming a complete individual, comfortable with how one lives and with what he or she believes. I think it is the prospect of such loneliness and how one is willing to face it that decides how original and genuine a person’s life can be, and of what lasting importance a person’s accomplishments will have. Anything of any lasting significance has always had to arise against the backdrop of resistance, reluctance, and difference with the consequence that those willing to affect change have been faced with prospects of dire isolation, not only on account of their ideas and beliefs, but on account of the very lifestyle that is inextricably linked to the ideas and beliefs they breed. Yet what is more difficult is that such isolation can cause one to feel isolated from one’s self, isolated from the kind of person one knows themselves to be.

Clichés become clichés for a reason. That nothing is won without sacrifice, despite its common use, is a cliché that has poignant truth to it. Many great writers, artists, musicians, and mystics have suffered bouts of sadness and isolation because the ideas and beliefs they had were so different that they became isolated from many of those around them. Some of these such as Camus, Nietzsche, and Hemingway, were able to give the world something great at the cost of losing themselves. Others such as Bertrand Russell, St. Teresa of Avila, and Ludwig Wittgenstein barely got out alive. Still others such as Carl Jung, the Buddha, or Eckhart Tolle, managed to not only overcome feelings of isolation, but to return and flourish, continuing to give the world something great, and to tell everyone that there are necessary feelings which must be felt and embraced if they are to become something more lasting.

In “The Thin Red Line,” Sean Penn’s character is asked if he ever gets lonely. His reply is, ‘Only around people.’ There is a tinge of pessimism in his response, but there is also a poignant truth. After all, many a sage and mystic have said that the wise person is one who finds the best company to be one’s self. This does not exclude all kinds of social life, but it does exclude one based on co-dependence instead of actual friendship. Such co-dependence relationships are ones where it seems everyone engages in activities they no longer enjoy or find valuable. Yet they continue to engage in them because the alternative would mean isolation. It is as if certain groups act as self-denial support groups where everyone comes to reinforce the illusion that what they are doing is the only outlet, the only answer, and the only way to be happy.

For me it has been frustrating at times knowing that so many people are still content to be occupied with getting drunk, staying out late and sleeping in, eating bad food, or fooling around with people whom they know and care little about. More than frustrating, it is lonely, but it is a loneliness of a different kind, a loneliness that can have the affect of isolating myself not just from other people but from the very person I am; I start to feel estranged from the kind of person I know myself to be.

There are times when I doubt myself. For me these doubts are feelings that I am somehow weird and fucked up for not wanting to engage in or not deriving the same kind of enjoyment from the activities of everyone else; times where I feel I must be strange for wanting to stay in on a Friday night to read a good book around a nice candle, drink some good tea, and go to bed early to seize the next day. There are times when I feel I’m the stranger; times when I convince myself that I must be depressed and pessimistic because I’m unhappy with what’s wanted or expected of me by friends, family, and mass culture.

Faced with such feelings the fight becomes a struggle to remain true to what I know deep down: that my passion and appreciation for all aspects of life is unmatched; that my drive to feel things deeply, openly, and full-heartedly has allowed me to experience the world in a way that most people never or rarely will; and that my desire for truth and lasting peace are the only pursuits I know to be of real value.

I’m quite certain that some people see me not smiling and use it as an excuse to assume that the kind of life I’m living is a sad and pessimistic one. Such people are intent on making such an assumption that they refuse to see how often I can and do smile. There are no illusions; I am not always happy. But those that are afraid to acknowledge loneliness and other feelings are unable to see them as temporary states to something higher. Moreover, it is a sensation, and all sensations are there as guides, they draw one’s attention to things that the body both mentally, physically, and emotionally needs to deal with. Many people, however, think the acknowledgment of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, or loneliness means an existence where such states become permanent characteristics of one’s existence; probably because they struggle to see a bright light at the end of the tunnel.

People sometimes say to me, “I wish I could motivate myself like you. I wish I had your discipline. I wish I had your drive to experience things.” When I ask them why they don’t they usually say they are lazy. But I don’t think laziness is the problem. I think it is feelings of loneliness that have to be overcome, feelings of isolation born of standing outside the crowd, feelings that all great accomplishments have had to arise from. I have known other people who are more open about the possibility of feeling alone and blatantly state that living a different life and making changes would come with price of being lonely, and that such loneliness is not something they are prepared to face. Such people are waiting for others to be the catalyst for change.

A while back I was at a social gathering where I observed two friends engage in what appeared to be a serious conversation over relatively personal matters; their glossy eyes were intent to listen, and the expressions on their faces were devoid of anything that could be said to resemble a smile. As they were talking, a friend came by to take pictures. Once the two people realized they were about to be photographed they turned to the camera with huge smiles. This change from one look to the other was so extreme that I felt I went temporarily mad; it was a kind of lightning flash. After the picture they went back to talking to each other with the same previous barren expressions. It seemed there was such a strong attempt to deny any possibility that they were anything but happy and content; an attempt born of a fear that one might be caught with hard proof in the form of a photograph that one’s life is anything but “picture perfect.”

The incident was extremely profound. I was bewildered by the attempt to hide what was being felt under the guise of a smile that can only be called fake. It is a metaphor for how people can be reluctant to face certain emotions, to hide them from one’s self out of fear and misunderstanding of what emotions are or can be. Feelings of isolation and loneliness are emotions that people run from the most, but they have to be faced at some point. Otherwise who we are will never be able to fully blossom, while those one loves will never be more than tools that one uses to escape feelings of loneliness, a task that in the end cannot fall to anyone other than one’s self.

What Poetry Means to Me

It has been over ten years since I composed my first poem. The original composition, now lying somewhere on my closet floor, along with just about everything I have ever written; original drafts, stories, and philosophy. I can’t recall any of the lines, I don’t know how long it was, if I were to walk into my closet and determinedly attempt to find it, my eyes would not recognize the words. But I do remember writing it, and most importantly, I remember what it was about; love, a concept and feeling that recently had new meaning for a young naïve sophomore in high school who was trying to get over his first girlfriend, his first love. I remember the feeling of helplessness in trying to convey to myself, and understand everything I was experiencing and feeling; how to make sense of an experience that was so unfamiliar, brutal, and powerful.

And just as in any art, it was feeling that drove me to express, and moved me to create. This was art as a kind of frustration that arises in trying to understand the world; It is imagination for the heart. A way to be free; free from one’s self, where one can express what they do not think people will understand (though we want them to try), where one can be genuine about something that they cannot bear to admit; a way to relieve one’s self of the pressures that have built up inside  because of the fears one has about who one really is; a way to make sense of life. It is poetry that attempts such things and succeeds as well as any art form. These are the feelings I remember when I recall myself frantically writing down the lines as they shot out of me; trying to compose them with some sense of order; trying to give them life.

Poetry, more than any other art form, is abstract by the very nature of its composition. Other forms of writing, such as literature or philosophy, begin with having something to teach. It was Ayn Rand who said in her guide to writing fiction that one must work out the theme, moral, conflict, and resolution before one can write the story. This is a testament to literature as an attempt to convey a message, to expound on “reality,” but it also serves to highlight a distinction between such forms of writing and poetry itself, for poetry has little to teach because there is little the writer knows. The poet has a swelling of feeling, an experience of great emotional magnitude. Poets then stand in awe of such feeling, exploring the deepest levels of sensation, while probing the depths of a new kind of world that has opened up to them. These are feelings that don’t make sense, that destroy logic, and leave one speechless. Yet one feel’s they must do something; one must act, and through one’s resolve, one reconciles themselves to an activity that becomes the very definition of abstraction.

In carrying this task out, poets treat language in ways that greatly differ from other styles of writing. Language for poets has little to do with using words as markers or symbols for actual things. Obviously, a poet will use words like, ‘sun’ or ‘sky,’ but in mentioning and describing such things words are used, not as representatives, but as doors; words are used by poets to convey, not a world of things, but to dismantle ‘thing-hood.’ Words are used to critique language, not to diminish the power of it, but to show that language is powerful precisely because it is without form. That is, poetry critiques language in order to undermine language, not to demonstrate it as a triviality, but to show that language is powerful precisely because it can be undermined.

Words hold a power that goes over and above their ability to be useful as designators or categorizers. Words carry the emotions that people invest them with. When a poet creates a piece, he or she relies on elements of sound, syllable, and timing in ways that bring out the “hidden” or disguised elements of feeling. Because poetry makes use of elements apart from language as a marker it tears down the wall of impressions built upon bare observation. The consequence is that basic perception gives way to pure imaginings, where the later holds the power, or in fact, asks of the reader to reflect on the world in a way that removes any barrier between it and the person who is reading.

In everyday life, language is often used to disguise thought or feeling. It is odd to talk of language as having the capacity to fundamentalize and imprison human thought, while at the same time, holding the power to open one up to a world of experience-possibility. None the less, it is true. It can become all too typical for one to use words such as ‘love’ ‘freedom’ ‘justice’ ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ Words such as these can become so common, not because people understand them, but because they have left them perplexed. Such words, however, only represent shortcuts at times; cheat sheets into a comfortable world where trains of thought come to a halt. They represent the contentment of perpetual procrastination; they represent things one thinks they understand but fails to explain; the failure to expound upon something and how it affects a given person. So one says ‘love,’ ‘freedom,’ ‘equality,’ etc. and feigns comprehension. It is poetry that reacts against such procrastination through its deep application of language. It is never content with leaving words transfixed. Thus the ability of language to express and expand upon the wonders associated with existence is preserved.

It was the feeling of tapping into a new kind of existence that I surrendered to when I first fell in love; that in-turn became the catalyst for writing my first poem. It was feeling that I wanted to understand; that had left me mystified, and it is what continually inspires me to write poetry.

Eight Years Later

It has been eight years since I left for Marine Corps boot camp. Although I am proud of those I served with and thankful for the lasting friends I made, I am ashamed to have participated in the Iraq war. For me the conflict has become nothing but a blatant example of political aggression and imperialism. It accomplished nothing and achieved nothing. There was no political right to wage it and no moral superiority to justify it.

As for my motivations, they were largely absent of political beliefs. Instead, from an early age I wanted to go to war. As a phenomenon, war is something that still attracts me. War is a primordial demonstration of lived experience, life in the moment, as both crisis and wonder. It is lived irony.

But the most gratifying irony, is knowing, that, despite being sent to Iraq as a representative of a government that assumed it had a culture and democracy worth spreading, Arab and Muslim culture ended up influencing me more than I influenced it. I find consolation in knowing I was humbled by a culture distinct from my own, and grateful to have walked along the banks of the Euphrates river, in the land often referred to as the Cradle of Civilization.

Beyond The Grading Principle

A couple months ago, me and a friend were discussing our grades for the semester. After revealing my grades they responded, “You’re smart.” I then tried to explain why I did not think grades mattered, and how hopefully, if I am smart, it has little to do with grades.

To most people, such a belief is perplexing. Grades are meant to be a mark of intellectual achievement, a sign of intelligence. This is true to an extent. The problem I have, however, is that such an estimation reduces the value of a fact from a personal and adaptable piece of information to a lifeless bit of material that is only seen as important in so much as it externally designates intellectual success.

Grades divorce the fact from an applicability that is relevant to how a person confronts and navigates the conflicts and questions of life. The result is that learning, and the search and attainment of knowledge, is made into a lifeless enterprise. That is, once a person attains the grade, there is no motivation to retain the fact or to see it as having a lasting and flexible quality that can be applied to life. Learning becomes lifeless. Wisdom is divorced from knowledge.

There are scores of people who have achieved academic success, but who cannot engage intimately with what they learned. Conversations with such people are very bland. But of course, such people usually point to their grades to console themselves. Worse is that these same people often fail to have opinions of their own, and are intellectually handicapped in the face of subjective discussions. What happened is that such people took the grade and substituted it in for the fact that it represents. The concern is then for the grade and what society says of people who have good marks. There is no longer a concern or motivation to retain the fact once the grade can stand in for it.

The attraction to holding onto the grade at the expense of the fact itself limits the utility of knowledge and keeps learning from being seen as an evolving and dynamic process. Not only that, the search for knowledge and wisdom is kept from being a way by which an individual connects with the wider world in a deep and meaningful way. The reduction of knowledge to a grade is thus another example of the common human desire to objectify concepts and dynamic processes into actual things. Like all things objectified by the individual, they are meant to correspond to the individuals perception of itself as a fixed thing.

Of course, it is not just the idea of a grade that is at fault. The idea of a fact is also one that is quite stultifying, for without an attitude that understands knowledge to be more than a simple piece of information from long ago, facts appear lifeless and irrelevant to present circumstances. Why should one know the battle of Actium was fought in 31 BCE or that Alexander the Great was Macedonian?

Thus I want to express what learning means to me, and what motivates me to study. My hope is that this will give some sort of an idea into why, once a semester of school ends, I’m still reading and writing papers, and why on some Friday nights I prefer to stay home with a new book and reflect on my thoughts. Lastly, I should point out that this search goes beyond what is commonly referred to as the distinction between “book smarts” and “street smarts.” There is a degree of truth to “street smarts” embracing actual “hands on” experience in a way that academically minded individuals do not, but the same shortsightedness that prevents certain people from moving beyond the grade, prevents those preoccupied with “street smarts” from seeing the dynamic utility of factual application and appropriation.

Learning for me is like interacting with a living breathing entity. There is nothing dead about history or information in general. To see things otherwise is a failure of the imagination and an inability to take seriously what it means to actually live; to be born from a process of causes and effects, and to participate in those causes and effects without limits. One thinks history is dead because one interprets an event as static while also reducing the great figures of history to individuals of an equally static and far away time. Yet both events and the people who participated in them are linked by themes that constantly resound through the ages no matter the time and place. Caesar is gone, along with his Roman Empire, but empires still exist. The men whose desire for power creates them still exist. War still exists. Tough decisions; both communal and existential still exist. The concept of a belief, which governs the making of those decisions, still exists. Internal conflict regarding how to act, who to love, and when to fight, still exist.

It is because such things exist that history is very much alive. Thus one can read Thucydides and perceive a cultural and temporal gap between our time and the Peloponnesian War, but if one engages the text with the right mindset, one realizes that there is no, or very little gap between Pericles decision to go to war with Sparta and decisions that we have to make on a daily basis. That is, we read of a person who had to make a decision; a decision based on beliefs. We then realize that this is something we all do everyday. Thus when we read history we get an understanding for realities of the time and see them recurring in our own. We engage with history to sympathize with other individuals who have had to experience the conflicts of life, and we learn from them. They let us know that as individuals our struggles are not as unique as we imagine. They recur as facets of what it means to be human.

Most people have never been or will never be in a position where they must make a decision that affects a whole country, but everyone knows what it is like to make tough decisions, and to be in conflict with what one may want against what a particular situation affords.

In a similar way as to how history is not dead, literature is not fictitious. The stories themselves are largely made up, but the actual dilemmas and experiences of the characters are ones that individuals understand every day. Moreover, the authors that compose literary works draw from the same emotions, and experiences that face people everyday. That is why literature has such an incredible power to move us. There is no reason history can’t be experienced in the same way.

Thus there is more to be discovered, experienced, and appreciated if one can break through the habit of seeing things simply. Nothing is simple. By this I mean no thing is isolated from the rest of the world. The father of a friend once quipped to me when I was young that, “simple minds are impressed by simple things.” This was in reference to a rock I was looking at. The truth, however, is that only a simple mind finds things to be simple. That rock was not just a rock. If one looks at it closely with a particular probing eye, one sees the thousands of pieces of sediment composed of it. One appreciates how solid it is and the hundreds of years taken to make it so solid. One might see a fossil remnant in it and begin reflecting on what it means to leave an imprint in the world.

Thus one constantly moves from an engagement with an object to that object’s relevance and reflection in one’s own life. A rock was a product of patience. It is engaged in time. It was constructed like all things, and like all things, it will pass. There is no reason that the line that designates animate and inanimate things has to be strict or exist at all. Nor does the line between such things as plants. One can look at a tree, and be inspired by how firm it stands in the middle of a storm. Surely such an appreciation is relevant to an individual’s life where he or she needs strength to be true to one’s beliefs, even in the midst of a storm of contrary opinions?

What this drives at is the realization that every piece of knowledge represents a gateway into a larger world, a world of interconnectivity. This interconnectivity has the power to bring the past to us, and to make it an active, and living presence in one’s life. It has the power to blur the line between living and non-living things. Looking at things deeply allows one to realize that life is constant exchange and relationship.

Thus studying for me is an engagement with the world that molds the past and future into the present moment where living and non-living things find their relevance in a dynamic and constantly changing process that represents, at its core, the very universe itself. Such an appreciation can never be designated by a grade.

Zen and Travel

I feel compelled to write about my motivations for travel, and where a camera fits in with those motivations. The question of the cameras importance in having a lasting and memorable experience has come up a number of times through friends and family who are often perplexed by my lack of desire to bring a camera on my trips; assuming it is then impossible to document or capture the experience.

This does not mean that I find a camera to be useless or that a person should never use a camera at all while travelling. On the contrary, I completely believe in the medium of photography as a way to get us to see the world differently. I also have faith in its ability to “capture” certain moments from a particular sense. This faith in photography just comes with reservations.

The first time I took a camera traveling was on a trip to Yosemite National park in California. On the hiking trails I remember a feeling of tension; being unable to decide when to stop, where to stop, did I miss a moment? Will I remember this? I took my time and took some lovely pictures, but I walked away with a feeling of failure in not capturing what I had seen. More specifically, I remember looking at the pictures later on and thinking, “These don’t do it justice.”

The next time I took a camera was to Iraq on both deployments. In Iraq there was an even stronger desire to try and capture what I was experiencing. Unlike Yosemite, however, there wasn’t only scenery I wanted to take pictures of, but feelings as well. Through brief moments of optimism I tried to capture what I was going through, but with little success. Walking away from deployment, I had left with many pictures, but I also left with intense emotions, realizations, and experiences. I can remember looking at the pictures later on and feeling frustrated that so many pictures could capture so little.

After my four years in the Marine Corps I went to Egypt for vacation. Here was another chance to “capture the moment.” Accompanying me on the trip was my good friend from the Marine Corps who had recently begun rediscovering his love for photography. It was interesting to watch him work. For me it became real demonstrative of how a person could enter into a dialogue with a place; almost if to become the very thing you were trying to capture. This was different than from what I had done in the past, and from what most other tourists were doing around us: that is, seeing something and trying to capture it as fast as they experienced it even though the feeling that spurred them to capture the moment had already passed. Thus the moment they were trying to catch became a kind of phantasm.

Egypt became a trip of a lifetime, not only because of what I saw, heard, and tasted, but because, much like Iraq, I had felt things at particular moments that transcended almost anything one could call tangible. Whether it was seeing the Pyramids come out from behind the buildings of Cairo, walking into a Muslim wedding, or the feeling of looking off into the Blue Hole while snorkeling off the coast. Again I had taken pictures. I was more patient. I scoped out particular angles, looked for kinds of lighting, considered depth etc. It wasn’t that this method wasn’t successful; the pictures I took gave me satisfaction, and along with my friend’s pictures, gave me a new sense for what a camera could do. It was just that when I reflected, I found that the most powerful experiences had been brief moments into another world; gone before I could acknowledge them, and intense beyond comprehension.  From then on I wanted to travel for those moments; to live for those moments. Needless to say I would still bring a camera on my next trip.

This came two tears later when I went to Turkey with another good friend. I brought a camera, but this time with the intention of using it almost meditatively. I also felt that from past experiences traveling in Egypt, I could get closer to those brief moments into another world.

I made sure to take my time with what I looked at. I would observe animals and insects and try to capture something profound about them. I would place flowers in the perfect corner relevant to a sunset, fog, or the ocean. I took many pictures; pictures with essence, pictures as paintings. Then irony struck:

On a random bus change in the middle of Turkey I dashed out of my seat to transfer to a different bus. An hour or so later I realized that my camera was gone: it had fallen out of my backpack and was now on a bus traveling through Turkey. I was devastated. I felt that I had poured my soul into the pictures I had taken. I tried to console myself with thoughts that my camera might be found by someone less fortunate. Or perhaps someone would find my camera, appreciate the photos, and even develop them so they could hang somewhere in their house. Perhaps I would stumble upon them on some auspicious day during a return trip through Turkey?

Then I realized something that I already knew: that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter I no longer had anything tangible to document my trip because the most powerful experiences were imprinted somewhere else. The pictures I had taken were only small glimpses into a world of feeling that was more profound for me. These were the feelings of being overwhelmed by the history and culture of place; a feeling that one is, on many levels, more than what he or she sees, hears, and tastes. These were the feelings that echoed from moments in Iraq and Egypt; moments from life in general.

The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh once told his students, “None of you have ever tasted a tangerine before.” After a number of the students countered that indeed they had, Hanh responded by saying, “No you have not because you were never fully present to the moment while you were eating them.” This can be viewed from the perspective of photography. How many pictures had I taken, and never really “seen” anything.” How many times had I neglected surrendering to the moment for the sake of trying to capture something else?

Now that I’ve put some years between my current situation and past travels I can reflect on the things I’ve done and confidently remind myself that the most memorable experiences I’ve had are permanently etched somewhere within. Those moments ran much deeper than anything sensory. They were moments I felt; moments that have given rise to the clichéd expressions, “You had to be there,” “Pictures don’t do it justice,” “It’s beyond words,” or “It was a life-changing moment.” These are the moments that leave us speechless, overwhelmed, changed.

Of course I could give more examples than the ones I described. I could mention the intensity of the heat when I first stepped off the plane into Kuwait. I could mention how it felt to walk off a mountain when I went paragliding over Oludeniz. But these are formalities. All a person needs to do is look back on their own lives and see what unhesitantly comes to mind; what still chokes you up or sends shivers down your spine?

For me there has been freedom in being able to let go in a place; a freedom that removes the distance and appearance of being separate from a place whether it is the sounds one is hearing, the sights one is seeing, or the people with whom one is engaging.

I remain reverent to what a camera can do, and I enjoy the creative possibilities that come with having one. I will probably bring a camera on my next trip. But as a way of capturing the whole moment, I’ll keep my reservations.

Plum Village

Plum Village, or Village des Pruniers in French, is a Buddhist monastic community in Southern France. It is the residence of the Vietnamese Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh who established the community in 1982 as a place to practice mindfulness in a communal setting with the aim of teaching and promoting awareness and understanding of individual and social conflicts.

I was in residence at the village for one week in January. This is a summary of that time. Through it I will elaborate on the experiences that had the deepest impact on me.

The first and immediate experience was that of location. Situated an hour by train east of Bordeaux, Plum Village is nestled in the country surrounded by farms and vineyards. One can’t help but feel the life sustaining ability of the growing region as one admires the countless farms and fields. This sense of vitality continues upon entering the village. As a couple days went by I reflected on this feeling of vitality and positive energy that seemed to emanate from everything. For me it made me think of my grandmas house, and how arriving there, especially as a kid, always filled me with positive feelings. Grandmothers tend to do everything with huge amounts of love and affection that it always makes everything seem more full. This is especially true of a grandmas cooking. I’ve been cooking some of my grandma’s recipes recently, but it doesn’t feel as satisfying or sustaining as when she cooks them. I can’t help but feel that more goes into a recipe then just the food. Love, compassion, and care also seem to make a meal nourishing.

Something similar was felt at Plum Village when eating. I felt so sustained by the food that it took me a while to realize that the meals were strictly vegan; something I never expected to wholly embrace, even though I’ve been a vegetarian for over a year. The food was also incredibly delicious.

This positive energy wasn’t just felt at meal times. Roughly every other day or so, lay people would gather for dharma sharing. Dharma sharing involved sitting in a circle in quiet meditation begun by three sounds of a bell. A monk would then lead the discussion as individuals were invited to talk openly about the relevance of a particular topic to their lives. Although participation was voluntary, I found it easy to open up and discuss whatever thoughts or feelings arose within me at the moment, as did a large majority of the retreaters.

A very interesting fact about these fellow retreaters that stuck with me was their background. Many of them came from lives marked by both financial and social success. These people had good jobs, comfortable lives, and social status: all things the world represents as the pinnacle of achievement. Yet many of these individuals were united in a common understanding that they weren’t satisfied. This understanding that material wealth and social status cannot bring ultimate happiness is one of the oldest lessons of a majority of the world’s spiritual and philosophical traditions (It is especially true of Buddhism if one knows the story of the Buddha). But it was nice to re-examine this lesson from a modern standpoint where such high levels of technological achievement may sometimes give the illusion that humans can finally sustain happiness through material possessions. Instead, these individuals recognized an urge to understand more about themselves, and to find a deeper and more lasting connection with the world.

I felt a memorable connection during an exercise called the “tunnel of love.” For the tunnel of love, men and women from both hamlets line up across from each other face to face in two rows and put their arms up and against their partners to form a tunnel that everyone else takes turns walking through. Those walking keep their eyes closed while the others help move them along as they pass; whispering kind words into the blind walkers ears. I was a bit hesitant at first, but as it commenced, the power of this exercise was immediately felt. I was taken back by many of the people, even grown men, crying as they walked through. When my turn came I closed my eyes and began walking. Within seconds I remember surrendering to the help and affections of others. I soon felt a liberating feeling; like a weight had been lifted, as I was guided by virtual strangers who were simultaneously whispering kind words into my ears. At one point someone grabbed my hand, and I couldn’t help but squeeze it. At another, someone simply whispered the word “love” in a clear and precise tone. That word is still echoing in my mind.

The monks at Plum Village live separately from laypersons such as myself who come and visit. But they eat, teach, and practice with everyone. For one of the dharma sharings, the monk who was leading it talked of his feelings over being put in charge of the recycling. He recalled how frustrated he would get at times because of people who would fail to allocate certain materials to the proper recycling bins even though they were clearly marked. What he said next was very touching. He said that after reflecting and meditating on his feelings he realized that being frustrated was perhaps a sign there was trash in his own heart that needed to be recycled.

In the same session another monk reflected on his job of being in charge of payments and processes of those wishing to come on retreat. He remarked that although he didn’t like the job at first, he realized it was because of him that outsiders were given a chance to visit Plum Village and experience a week or two of life changing experiences. And so, seeing his job from this viewpoint made him enjoy it much more.

What I soon realized about these monks was that they were not superhuman in the sense that most westerns might imagine; meditating for hours on end, going without food, being impervious to the elements. Instead they were, to quote Nietzsche, “Human, all too human.” Yet they were human in a free and pure way as a result of the authenticity of their contemplation. What truly made these monks special was their willingness   to confront their emotions instead of repressing them.

A constant theme at the village was that happiness can’t be experienced without suffering. That is, they are really two sides of the same coin. Embracing both sides allows us to feel the world in its un-dualistic nature. A common saying at the monastery is that a lotus flower grows in mud and not marble. More appropriately, what is suffering is actually a useful or necessary step to something more remarkable. We forget that pain is a sign of a healthy body in so much as we are equipped with a warning system for any time we may be injured or over straining ourselves. In Buddhism, pain and suffering are parts of individuals that can’t be alienated form who they are. An individual can only embrace it with compassion and be there for it with hope and faith that it can be transformed. For me this is like a family member who one is bound to through blood. One can’t replace the blood, or the years of growing up together. One can only accept them as a part of their own life.

In Buddhism, suffering is a sign that we feel compassion and empathy for the rest of the world; for those living in poverty, or for those living lives of unabated consumption. We need to be in touch with such suffering as to recognize how are own lives are inextricably linked with the lives of everyone else. For me it is like the day after a workout of some kind: you want your body to be sore as it is a sign of a good workout. Similarly our connection to suffering is the sign of a close connection to the rest of the world.

In this world, especially the West, most kinds of suffering and doubt are expected to be repressed or drowned away in the consumption of other activities: drinking, shopping, watching TV, sex. Yet what ends up being suppressed are feelings and questions of human experience that cannot be avoided; questions that are hard but necessary: Am I really happy? What is the point of life? What is happiness? What is truth? These are human questions that comprise who we are.

These questions are not easy, but asking them with courage is the difference between unknowingly being controlled and carried away by our urges and base desires, or the possibility of a life where one feels lasting happiness. At Plum Village the later begins with a simple activity: being mindful and present to all of one’s thoughts and actions; whether they are based in hate and anger or love and compassion.

As I awoke on the morning of departure and began getting dressed, I remember the feeling of putting my wallet in my pocket for the first time in a week. The moment was both sad and profound. I realized that the “real world” I was going back into was not any less real; only unnecessary.

A few hours later I was back in Bordeaux walking from the train station to my hotel. As I looked around, the feeling was one of joy and sadness. I was sad because I was looking around at all the people who were unable to live in the present moment for more than a few fleeting instances. But I also felt joy at both feeling compassion for them, and for understanding a little bit more how their prospects of joy or sadness are my prospects as well.