A Better, More Beautiful Place

I want to give some background to why I wrote this piece.  My choir, Utah Voices, performed Beethoven's 9th Symphony as well as Gloria from Missa Solemnis over the weekend.  It truly was a highlight of my entire life.  What an honor; what a privilege.  Beethoven himself would have been proud.  It was a crowning moment, for sure. I was lucky enough to have my dear English comrades in attendance  for the concert, which meant so much to me. My English professor, Dr. S. and family even attended the event.   I had an assignment for school that talked about the differences between different types of art, and I realized that the beauty of music is it is a lovely combination of art - a true collaboration of brilliance for the sake of experience that which is music.  So here are my thoughts on the subject:

A Better, More Beautiful Place

            Music, the word used to describe that which is so magnificent it cannot be expressed in words alone.  It is a universal art form, one that appeals to humanity on a micro-molecular level.  It seeps into wounded hearts, infusing healing and health; it awakens the soul, enlightens the mind and is the very life-dance of existence. 

            Music is binary; it is either right or it is wrong.  And while music leaves much to the interpretation and imagination, it abides by steadfast laws and vow-bound motives.  It is the pulse of life, the rhythm of breath, the essence of hope.  Its melodies are heard ‘round the world, in every corner of every continent, in each tribe, dialect, nation, kindred, tongue.  Music paints on the full and rich canvas of the human experience; it is contrived of every emotion that has ever been felt or will ever be felt.  It is all there, the highs and lows, triumph and tragedy, patience and suffering, regret and devastation, light and darkness.  Throughout the annuals of history, music is embedded in the souls of every man, woman and child that has ever lived.  It is the backdrop to life, the literal music of the heart.

            Music is about the Creator; and music is about the individual, the collective, the family, the future.  Music is a direct form of communication between the very Author of All, God Himself.  Music is deeply personal, while at the same time widely universal, causing the great and beautiful spectrum that is the musical trajectory.  Music is about the composer, the performer, the artist, and the listener.  Its power and purpose is far greater that even the most brilliant writers and poets do not have words adequate enough. 

            Music is selfless, gracious and honest.  It seeks to lift, inspire and aid with no thought of compensation or payment in return.  Music expresses that which the heart, the mind, the eyes, the ears cannot; but what it does express is something so intrinsic, so inherently recognizable, that it freely reverberates in the hearts of every human being – one note, one melody at a time, making the world a better, more beautiful place.    

Forgotten, Forlorn

Forgotten, Forlorn

      It’s called “the catwalk”; a strip of concrete embedded between two houses, paving the way down the hill to my childhood elementary school.  In the spring and fall it was secret, hidden – overgrown with trees, branches and all kinds of greenery.  And in the winter, large, heavy bows of snow draped over the walkway leading to the place so many of my memories have been made.  It is hallowed there, for my inner child still longs for that place, still remembers what it felt like to carelessly bound down the hill, and still revels in the simplicity that lived in the hills behind the schoolhouse. 

     The grass seemed to go on and on, for miles and miles.  I would stand on the trampled-down asphalt, looking far to my right and seeing the homes and the fences that lined the upper field of the school grounds; the pine trees were my favorite.  There they stood, majestically and proud, a guardian of innocence.  To my left is where most of the kids would play.  There was a rather peculiar spot along the worn and weathered chain-link fence that I particularly loved.  It was almost like a hollow, a spot carved out in small grove of trees.  One of the trees had fallen down, probably years before, and had become embedded in the foliage, leaving an almost bench-like resting spot.  It was beautiful and isolated – protection from the schoolyard chaos.  The leaves and branches acted like a perfectly constructed canopy, shading the secret hollow from onlookers.  I created an entire make-believe world there, and it was the source of sanctuary and reprieve, happiness and freedom. 

      And while to most other students that have left their mark on the landscape of that elementary school, my magical, enchanted knoll was just an odd-shaped tree juxtaposed amid shrubs, grass and old chain-link fence.  But to me, it is a literal representation of my childhood mind, a celebration of the child-like imagination, and a place where I lived, where I walked, where I thought about life, and where life happened to me.  All at the base of a broken-down, forgotten and forlorn tree. 

Summer Magic

    

     Those magical, hot summer nights in my neighborhood as a child.  As I look back upon my life, nothing has ever compared to those days.  It was the wonderment of the vast, starry sky mixed with the scent of summer on the youthful skin of my childhood friends.  And in that time we really lived; we truly lived. 

     The blistering, sunny days seemed to be every day an eternity, and every night a quiet, cool communion with Him that created all that we enjoyed.  Summer nights still capture the majesty I felt as a child, whether it be in the warm, sticky evening breeze, sun-kissed, freckled skin, the feeling of vibrantly green blades of grass underneath me as I gazed up at the star-spattered universe, wondering about all the things that I still wonder about now.

     And while there are multitudes of moments composing my childhood summers, there is none so poignant, so perfect, than the hours upon hours I spent with my best friend in the enormous oak tree in her backyard.  It was a thing of true beauty and awe; it was as if the tree was a person, a tangible figure in the fibers of my childhood.  In the fall it would produce the most vibrant, fiery shades of orange, red and yellow.  And in the spring, the emerald green leaves seemed to sprout almost from nowhere, from the bare bleakness of winter, signaling a renewal, an insurgence of hope.  Those leaves were our guard, our shield from the world.  Once we climbed the trunk of the old oak tree, escaping into its branches like a bank robber on the run it was just us; the world disappeared into the distant background, and we were left there to contemplate life as we knew it.  Sometimes we would sit in the tree for hours, watching the musings of the neighborhood, the only communication being the mischievous, glorious glances exchanged between us.  We kept an especially watchful eye over the house we were convinced was haunted, and from our secret vantage point we watched it faithfully, anxiously waiting for our instincts to be confirmed. 

     Two doors down lived Fred Dixon.  He was too old to see us in the tree across the street from his house.  He had the most beautiful rose bushes in his well-manicured front yard.  His silvery hair literally glowed under the indiscriminate summer sun.  He looked like an angel.  When Mr. Dixon died, we missed seeing him tend to his rose bushes with his aged yet careful care and kindness.  The neighborhood was never quite the same; we were never quite the same.

     But what did remain was my fervent love affair with the ease, the lilting freedom of summer.  Summer is a song with the most simple yet delicate of melodies, accompanied by the fullest of harmonies.  The song is sung by the birds, by the swaying trees, by the smell of chlorine, the hometown Fourth of July parade, the lazy days of living.  It is there that the glories of life shine through, touching each child, leaving a lasting impression and a yearning for summer that never – no, never – fades away.

Is it All About Time?

            Time.  On the one hand, it is the selfish pursuer, always tracking its prey, waiting in the wings for a moment of stillness.  And quite the opposite, time can be the literal Balm of Gilead for a broken soul.  Time is a paradox; the greatest of masterpieces can be created with time, and the most atrocious tragedies happen by the minute and second hand of time.  We are all slaves to it, and it waits patiently to beckon us when we least want it to.

           Often it is lamented that time passes too quickly.  What about the mother that loses an infant to death, or a child that suddenly becomes motherless or fatherless?  Time to them is something fleeting, something they wish they could rewind and live again, but differently and with precious pause for each last second. 

Time laughs in the face of control as it cunningly slips through the death grip of those that try to constrain it.  It cannot be stopped, nor can it be slowed.  It can, however, be intensified and relished.  Though we have no concept of when time will run out for us, we can emulsify ourselves in the time we do have, trying to wring each and every moment of minutia we possibly can before surrendering to the great Father Time. 

        Rather than worry and anguish for time that is lost or wasted, try instead to anticipate the quickening of time and walk out confidently to meet it as two enemies about to duel on an empty, dusty road.  Know it will control you if you do not maximize it.  So decide to be the one to mock Father Time by paying attention to each passing moment, to every encounter, to the people you love most, to the things in life that are valuable.   Be patient.  Learn to wait.  Time is all we have, and yet it is what we lack most.  

Forgetting the Good While Pursuing the Best

       We live in a perfection-obsessed society.  In every facet of life, the society-approved ideal is intentionally infiltrating our minds and thoughts.  It is inescapable.  There is no way to avoid it.  Perfection is recklessly forced upon us, invading the impressionable and domineering the defiant.  It is not a respecter of persons and seeks to unilaterally defeat us all, leaving no survivors in its wake. 

        But perfection is the unattainable, the impossible to possess.  So why does perfection reign supreme?  We are taught from childhood to always strive to be the best, not to strive to be good, but the best.  Life becomes a competition, with each participant striving to be better than all the rest.  And unless you are one of the very lucky few, you are left in the distant dust of all that are merely good, as we watch those that are the best continue to have and be that which is best. 

           Settling for mediocrity, or stagnating into nothingness is not the answer, either.  However, there is a middle ground.  And it lies in striving for good, not demanding the best and avoiding nothingness.   I have so poignantly seen this play out in the spotlight of my own life as an English major.  Letting go of the need to be the best writer that produces the best writing has given me a new found freedom to appreciate the great writing of other great writers, while acknowledging the good of my own writing and ability.  The need to be the best, to be the most profound or beautiful did nothing but create an overall dissatisfaction with myself, my work and even potential to be a good writer.  I realized that I am surrounded every day by amazing writers, many that are far better than me, but their talent does not take away from mine, and I am not the best, and that is okay.  I am happier when I am not the best, but when I am seeking out the good.

            Put away the sense of best.  Discard the pursuit of perfection.  Step away from the need 
to rise above all others and all else.  Guard the good; commit to it and be it.  Allow someone else the empty, short-lived feeling of attaining the best, for it is temporary and fleeting.  Embrace the good and help others recognize and align their own lives with the freedom and brilliance that comes from achieving that which is not the best, but good.  That is where the best really reside.  

Pushing Outside The Essayist Box

I have attached a label to myself.  I am an essayist.  I love writing essays.  I love analyzing literature, summarizing it from my point of view, and writing an essay about it.  I'm good at it (sorry...not trying to brag, but it's true:)  )  I've received much praise regarding my ability to compose well-thought, well-composed essays.

What I've realized over the course of last semester is that is basically all I write; essays.  I do not consider myself a novelist, a poet, a playwright.  No way!! Another observation of my work: I tend to write on heavy, deeply emotional and taxing topics.  As I am starting a new year, a new semester, I have committed to stepping outside the Essayist Box I have so willingly occupied for the last year or so.  I want to challenge myself to be that poet, playwright, writer of historical fiction - whatever it may be.  I've been very inspired by my two literature classes I'm taking, and trying hard to expand my writing style.

Today's assignment: write 10 lines of harmonic couplets in iambic pentameter.  Whaaaat?!?! I don't do poetry.  Everyone thinks they are a "poet".  I don't relate to poetry.  Except I do.  Since Emily Dickinson entered my life nearly a year ago, I have found great solace and wisdom in her poems; I have felt connection to poetry unlike ever before.  So, I gave it a shot.  I penned my first poem today.  And surprisingly, it came pretty naturally.  Who knew.  I do not claim to be an amazing poet by any means, but I am proud of my first attempt at trying to become a good one.  Maybe a half-decent one, at best.  So...in all its glory, here it is:

Sometimes I feel that it is just me

Floating along in this vast and dark sea.

I see beautiful and frightful things along the way

Like suffering, sadness – the light of a new day.

I want to be strong, to know my course is sure;

To live with integrity, hope, and a heart that is Pure.

And when I falter, as I well know I will

My vision of purpose shall remain, Still.

I have been given a great gift – my life

And it is full of both triumph and strife.

To suffer – the pain, sometimes I ask why?

To which, silence is often the reply.

But I know who I am, and who I should be,

And therein lies the power in Me.

Lucy

Lucy

            It was ten o’clock on a clear, frosty spring day when they drove to the home of a stranger. It was a home in the country, on the West side of the valley.  It took a long time to get there, and the boy and his mother were anxious to arrive, eager to see the puppy the that may become a part of the family soon. 

            The house was old, run-down and in complete disarray.  The boy looked at his mother, as if begging her reassurance as they walked, hand in hand, up the chain-linked fence walkway.  There were big dogs everywhere and even some goats on the side of the house.  The boy was only four and the mother, sensing his subtle uneasiness, spoke softly and smiled to him as they approached the door.

            The boy rang the doorbell.  He always loved pushing all the buttons when they went places together and especially liked when it was just him and his mother, so he didn’t have to share the opportunity with his sister.  A sloppy, loud woman with large glasses swung open the door, startling them both.  The boy’s big brown eyes instantly became bigger as they stepped inside the dark, cluttered house. 

            She invited them to sit on the green velvet couch.  The boy took off his red jacket, subconsciously pleading for another reassuring glance from his mother.  She patted his back and talked to the loud woman when suddenly from the other room came five of the cutest, smallest puppies the mother and her son had ever seen.  The puppies stumbled along, following their mother, trying to latch on for food.  The puppies’ mother looked old and tired.  The loud woman told the boy and his mother that the puppies’ mother had had four litters of puppies, and was to have another litter as soon as possible.  The boy’s mother’s heart silently broke for the poor dog mother, knowing she was simply being used for money, sorrowing over the grueling effects it had on her small body. 

            The boy, prior to coming to the loud woman’s house, had decided upon the black puppy of the litter – a little girl.  She was sweet and spunky, and she was also the runt.  But, another puppy, a small, white one with light brown ears and a very light brown spot on her face paid particular interest to the boy.  She came right up to him, her tiny tongue licking the boy’s hand, her baby tail wagging in delight.  She was fiery, this little one!  The loud woman told the boy and his mother that this puppy, the white one, was the favorite of the dog mother and also the loud woman herself.  She was feisty but cuddly, lively but loving. 

            The mother looked at the boy, and in a finite moment, the decision was made as she saw love in its rawest and purest form manifested by the light in her little boy’s eyes as he played and loved the white puppy with the light brown ears.  The boy was beaming from ear to ear and was sweet and gentle to the little puppy.

            The mother and her son left soon after, letting the loud woman know they would be coming back to get the white puppy with light brown ears when she was old enough to leave her mother, which was just a few weeks away.  The boy did not want to leave his newfound companion there, especially not with the loud woman that did not seem to love and adore the puppy as he did.  And so his heart was heavy, and that spark of light in his eyes that his mother saw so clearly now had turned to pools of sadness.  He searched his mother’s face in desperation, wanting to be comforted, to know he would see his puppy again soon.  She lovingly took his perfect little hand and walked him back to the car.  She tried to be strong, to alleviate his concerns; all the while, her own mother-heart was swollen with sadness, as she wanted to care for and love the little puppy, too.

            And just as promised, only a few weeks later, the mother returned with her son to the dilapidated, dysfunctional home of the loud woman, where they retrieved the long-awaited for white puppy with light brown ears.  The boy, once again, had the spark of love and light ignite in his eyes as he held her, comforted her, and loved her all the way home.  And he named her Lucy. 

To Be Confounded

As of Monday, I am officially back in school full time.  I am so grateful to be in such great classes with first-rate professors.  I am more convinced than ever that I am meant to do what I am working so hard towards, which is being an English professor.  Things keep falling into place; I simply cannot deny it.  So, here is a sample of some of my first writings from this new semester.  I was inspired by the musical piece "Te Deum" by John Rutter, specifically by the phrase "O Lord, in Thee have I trusted; let me never be confounded." , and the words to the piece prompted the following writing:

I Am Confounded

To be confounded.  Why not use the words confused, afraid, scared or unsure?  Confounded.  It is beyond confused, and beyond afraid, scared and unsure.  It is a feeling that there is almost not words to describe, and yet there is, and it is confounded.  I thought I knew what that word meant.  I thought I had lived and experienced what it means to be confounded.  Geometry as a sophomore in high school was a time of confoundedness that produced some of the most frustrating feelings I ever had.  I just did not  understand it! I was confounded – beyond the normal “I just don’t get it” that comes with math. 

On January 16, 1996 my best friend that I grew to love like a brother, Dan, died.  Again, I was brought to my knees, paralyzed by pain I did not know existed, and there were those feelings of confoundedness I had not known before.  I questioned and pleaded with God – why  and the  question of why is the keystone of confoundedness.  And it is the why that caused great despair and sadness, which caused further confoundedness in me.

And then there is the opposite kind of confounded.  The kind that entered like a meteorite, changing the landscape of my being forever, and that is the level of confounded that without hesitation appeared the second, the literal instant I became a parent.  That baby, her beautiful eyelashes, lips and nose – her tiny body, perfect head, little hands and the sweetest, most heart-achingly, precious cry I had ever heard.  It was her that instituted confounded in a way that nothing else before or since.  I was confounded with joy. 

I am time and time again confounded by the power and far-reaching influence of music.  The capacity to stand arrested, astonished by its influence and authority leaves me lying in Confounded’s wake, touched and moved to a place that is sacred, that is mine, and it is my communion with God.  The brilliant musical works of Handel combined with the inspired words of Isaiah lead to a type of confounded that has the power to change lives, inspire improvement and become the balm of Gilead that heals wounds that would otherwise be incapable of healing.

It is in the simple things that confoundedness can be found.  A fiery sunset, a perfect, full moon, a glowing, autumn day all have potential to create a state of confounded that should be a regular part of human life.  For if we can learn to be confounded by the small and simple, then we experience the sense of wonderment, gratitude and humility that contribute to greater contentment and happiness.  And that, to me, is the catalyst for true confoundedness.  

My Final Writing Project - Fall Semester 2011

            Death. 

            Life. 

            Happiness. 

            Knowledge.

            Purpose. 

            Suffering. 

      The broad, bold brushstrokes that indiscriminately illustrate on the canvas of the human experience.  These topics cannot or should not be ignored or left unattended, whether in thought or action.  They are the foundational elements of what makes up me.  What makes up you.  And because of that commonality results human connection, and the human connection is what fuels the bright and roaring fire of life that is in each one of us. 

     To my reader, whoever they are and wherever they may be, I have been fortunate to live a full life, highlighted by greatness and joy; I turned thirty-one years old during this course, this amazing but challenging fall semester in the year 2011.  I have enjoyed tremendous triumphs and successes, but also endured unspeakable, racking pain.  And through it, I have continued to write what is uppermost in my heart and mind, not to simply satisfy certain course requirements, but because it is who I am; writing lends vibrancy to life and reality, and also an escape from life.  It is the way in which I record the trajectory of my experience, my thought, my emotion my deepest everything. 

     As I have recollected upon the last thirteen weeks, reread my writing, and passed along much of it to my friends and family, I have discovered there is a central theme; upon first glance, much if not all of my writing appears negative in nature.  Sad, perplexed, doubtful.  While I do not deny these basic and fundamental truths of my writing and also of my own self, it must be also recognized that it is also the perpetual pulse of the desire for knowledge – knowledge about who I am, what I want, what I fear, what I hope for, who I want to become.  It is this realization of knowledge that has been the driving force behind my writing, my life, my self.  At thirty-one years old, I feel a sense of immense intelligence alongside incredible ignorance.  The decision to go back to school, pursue the dream I have of receiving a Ph.D. and doing what I know I am meant to do in life has opened my mind to a large and lofty influx of knowledge and information; some classes have been an all-out struggle, and some have come naturally and easily.  But while I have been fed a great feast of otherwise unknown knowledge, I feel more and more like I am only just beginning, as if my eyes are being opened for the first time, that actually, at thirty-one I know less and less about life than I did ten years ago.  In the words of the brilliant Blaise Pascal, “It is certain that as man’s insight increases . . . he finds both wretchedness and greatness within himself.”  My own wretchedness and greatness have been put on display, plumbed to depths I did not know existed, and come forth in the form of words – honest and sometimes beautiful words. 

     Death.  Death is a central theme in life and literature, and one that recurs often in some of the greatest literary works in all of history.  My writing prompted by Thomas Mann’s “The Path to the Cemetery” reflects my recollections of walking through my hometown graveyard with my mother as a child, and the thoughts and feelings it conjured for me.  However, the subject of death that most profoundly impacted me was the great short story, The Death of Ivan Illych by Leo Tolstoy.  As a lover of Tolstoy, I was anxious to read this story and eagerly ingested every word.  Although a large portion of the story surrounds the subject of death, and the literal physical death of the factious Ivan Illych, the prevailing theme was the natural, innate humane desire to have life matter and mean something to those around us.  This was reinforced with reading excerpts from “East of Eden” by John Steinbeck, one of my favorite novels of all time.  Steinbeck says, “In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved.”  At the end of the life of Ivan Illych, those were the two most important things, that he felt he had mattered, done good, and that he was loved and had given love. 

     Life.  It seems only natural while living a mortal life to stop and ponder its elements and facets.   In “East of Eden”, John Steinbeck writes, “We have only one story.”  In other words, this life is a gift, and with that gift we have one chance at how to use it.  And while it is true, we have only one story, we have countless opportunities to reinvent, recommit and revitalize our lives, thereby improving the quality of life, perhaps without concern for the quantity of life.  One of the elements of life that has been brought to the forefront for me is my ability to be more compassionate, more tolerant and open-minded to the people I travel and meet along this journey called life.  The wise and almost always right Walt Whitman said, “In all people I see myself.”  Is that not the greatest achievement in mortality, to say that in another person you see yourself, and therefore have love and understanding for another human soul that exceeds expectation?  From the magnificent Viktor Frankl, concentration-camp survivor and Psychiatrist, “The salvation of man is through love and in love” (Frankl, 1985).  And finally, from the poetic words of Victor Hugo in the illustrious novel Les Miserables, “To love another person is to see the face of God” (Hugo, 1987).  In my writing inspired by Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”, many elements of life are acknowledged, and although the theme of the piece may at first seem sad, in the end it is the love that comes from light, joy and God that is abiding and never ceasing.  Love, in its purest form, is the answer. 

     Happiness.  “No aspect of life is more desired, more elusive, and more perplexing than happiness” (Nicholli, 2002).  Happiness, although seemingly foundational in the life experience, is seemingly abstract and can be fleeting.  Why?  What really makes us happy?  In comparing and contrasting the great minds of Sigmund Freud and C.S. Lewis, the answer to the often puzzling pursuit of happiness is found in meaningful relationships, and as an antithesis, the lack of happiness is found in the rhetorical lack of meaningful relationships (Nicholi, 2002).  It is impossible to discuss happiness without simultaneously discussing love, as love is more often than not the quality that either is or is not in such relationships.  Nicholi says, “…we are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our objects or its love.”  The more we are willing to love, the more love we can receive in return, thus bringing happiness in its fullest measure.  And the great poet Charles Williams, as quoted by Armand Nicholi so simply states, “Love you? I am you” (Nicholi 2002).  To truly love, unabashed, unselfishly means that the one becomes the beloved, and the beloved comes the other, and a unique unity is born that offers such great, lasting and real happiness.  To further clarify, Emily Dickinson pens the simple but beautiful words in which the word beauty can be substituted for happiness:

"Beauty be not caused – it is.

Chase it and it ceases

Chase it not and it abides . . ."

     Happiness, although the pursuit of which proclaimed by our Founding Fathers as something available to all, seems more to be a byproduct of living a good, purposeful life rather than a state that should be actively pursued.  In addition, I have found that the knowledge that I am not alone attributes greatly to my own personal happiness, and in my writing titled “Sovereign Sojourn” I illustrate the painfulness of feeling alone and contrast it with the happiness that can come with realizing I am never alone.

    Knowledge.  The great philosopher Rene Descartes famous statement, “I think, therefore I am” implies that the origin of all knowledge is actually thought.  If thought is the spark of knowledge, it then becomes crucial to cultivate thought, pay attention to it, write it down, record it and expand it.  Ortega y Gasset says, “Tell me to what you pay attention, and I will tell you who you are.”  So simple, yet so profound.  From E.F. Schumacher’s A Guide for the Perplexed we learn much regarding knowledge – what it is, how to obtain it, and what to do with it.  We learn about the Four Fields of Knowledge (Schumacher, 1980): self-knowledge, empathy, objectivity about oneself and objectivity about the world.  “The goal of human knowing is knowledge of total reality, which includes all four Fields of Knowledge” (Schwiebert, 2011).  In other words, sole focus on only one aspect of acquiring knowledge will lead to a vast imbalance, a direct disservice to the soul and mind.  The more open we are, meaning taking an active role in our experience of life and then committing completely to making a habit of paying attention to those experiences, the more we grow and develop, learn and progress; in essence, the more knowledge we gain.

     Purpose.  Why am I here?  What is my life for?  Does my life matter?  The questions that have been asked since the beginning of time, and will be asked until the end of time.  I have found clarity in my own purpose in and through writing, and in my piece from Wendell Berry’s “Life is a Miracle”, I discuss what motivates me to write, and through my writing I am able to express some of my purpose.  More than anything else, I want to know that what I do matters, to someone;  I want, need, to know that my life has a purpose and I have a reason for being; I believe that desire is universal and irrespective of persons, race, creed or religion.  In “The Death of Ivan Illych”, one of Ivan’s greatest tormentors is the idea that his life has meant nothing to virtually no one; and in that solidarity, he was forced to face suffering, and ultimately a painful death, alone.  No other work in the course of this semester so profoundly affected my vision of purpose than Viktor Frankl’s “Man’s Search for Meaning”.  Frankl strongly suggests that love and unearthing the purpose of a life are intertwined: “Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality…By his love he is enabled to see the essential traits and features in his beloved person; and even more, he sees that which is potential in him, which is not yet actualized but yet ought to be actualized.  Furthermore, by his love, the loving person enables the beloved person to actualize these potentialities.  By making him aware of what he can be and what he should become, he makes these potentialities come true (Frankl, 1985; emphasis added).  Purpose is synonymous with potential; the potential we see in others, that we see in ourselves, fuels the purpose that we all so desperately need and desire.  To awaken potential and worth in another human soul is to achieve the highest level of purpose.  I have had a greater understanding of my own individual purpose; my purpose has been cut with a clarity and precision that has caused me to know for a surety the direction and path of my life, where I will go, and what I will do.  With that knowledge, that purpose, comes a great deal of peace and hope, despite seemingly endless pain and sorrow.  As Frankl illustrates by his own life and example, once you know the why of your life, you can endure almost any how; for if you never understand the why, what would be the purpose of the how? (Frankl, 1985).  Find the why.  Dig deep.  Do not be afraid of what resides there, what you may find.  As I scrape the hidden recesses of my soul and inner core to discover what the ‘why’ is for me, then and only then can I apply the ‘how’.

     Suffering.  I have relied heavily on “Man’s Search for Meaning” over the last thirteen weeks of the semester, and in particular for this final course project.  Because of the deep and lasting impact Frankl’s book has had on my life, it only follows that much of my material and thought is found in the pages of Frankl’s meaning-seeking masterpiece.  Physical suffering has been a part of my life for almost as long as I can remember.  Emotional, mental, spiritual and psychological suffering also compose much of my experience in this life.  But instead of choosing to be unhappy, negative and miserable, Frankl has shown me how to find meaning, and therefore purpose, in that which I suffer.  And as Frankl himself so bravely showed by his own life and legacy, he did not succumb or surrender to his suffering; but instead, he was victorious.  And because Frankl was victorious means I, too, can be victorious.  I may not be victorious every moment of every day, but that is beside the point.  What does matter is remaining steadfast, always looking toward the future with hope and purpose, realizing that suffering is unavoidable and inescapable, but what I can control is my attitude toward my suffering.  There is always choice.  No matter what, no matter our circumstance or situation, no one can take away my mind, my ability to think, my experience, my past, my memory, my feelings, convictions and principles.  Not even my hope and potential for the future can be taken unless, and only unless, I am the one to forsake it.  In the face of tremendous tragedy, heroes rise, valor reigns, courage and dignity resound and hope is victorious.  That is the purpose of human suffering.  Frankl says, “To suffer bravely, that is, with your head held high, is among the greatest of human triumphs…but what can never be ruled out is the unavoidability of suffering.  In accepting this challenge to suffer bravely, life has a meaning up to the last moment, and it retains this meaning literally to the end.  In other words, life’s meaning is an unconditional one, for it even includes the potential meaning of unavoidable suffering” (Frankl, 1985).

So, what?  The two simple but provocative words.   My views of death, life, happiness, knowledge, purpose and suffering have been expanded and fortified through vibrant and tangible examples found in some of the best literature known to mankind.  I have rediscovered truths, truths about life, myself, my soul.  I have recommitted to living with purpose, actively pursuing the habit of attentiveness, in order to appreciate and embody the beauty and sheer magnitude of being alive.  I have paid homage to my own thoughts by recording them, using them to explore the depths of my self and soul.  I have clearly defined my own purpose, and resolve to help unearth the purpose in others; I understand that my purpose may change and be subject to time and a season.  I now see that purpose is and can be found in suffering, and while suffering is unavoidable, the way I deal with my suffering will in essence define me, showing the depths of my character and commitment, values and truth.

References

Frankl, V. E. (1985). Man's search for meaning. New York: Pocket Books.

Hugo, V. (1987). Les misérables. Penguin.

Nicholli, A. (2002), The question of God; C.S. Lewis and Sigmund Freud debate god, love, sex, and the meaning of life.  Free Press

Schumacher, E. F. (1980). A guide for the perplexed. Harper Perennial.

Schwiebert, J. (2011).  Supplemental text: English 3210: advanced college writing (fall 2011).