Know ye not that ye are gods?
Medicine, electronic communication, space travel, genetic manipulation - these are the miracles about which we now tell children. These are the miracles we herald as proof that it is not God that has the answers. Ancient stories of immaculate conception, burning bushes, and parting seas are no longer relevant.
God has become obsolete.
There were days when a baby's sex was a surprise, a natural disaster was just that - natural, and death followed you. No longer. Sure, a lot of people believe in God, but a lot of people believed the world was flat, too. Wide acceptance of an idea is not proof of its validity.
If God is eulogised for being a Creator, what now can he claim? Is there really anything still shrouded in mystery, or that scientists are not on their way to proving?
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, as has been the case for years. The shadows of this history whisper in the dark, but yet again, have been outsmarted. There is little we cannot do: Prolong life? Easy. Grow embryos? No problem. Cure disease? Consider it done. Sometimes, divine revelation simply means adjusting your heart to hear what your brain already knows.
Our once complex universe, in all its glory, has newfound logical explanations. We murder to dissect. Sunsets have been reduced to wavelengths and frequencies, DNA been decoded, and the Earth excavated for our purposes. In this context, how is it strange to believe in mathematical impossibility rather than a power greater than us?
We ARE the creators, yet we naively play the part of the created. In a play of dramatic irony, it is our very own faculty of knowledge and curiosity, generously bestowed upon us by this 'God', that has elevated us amongst the divine. It has given us the wisdom and freedom to prove our upper hand in this difficulty worth living for.
Granted, we may have reached a straining point - one where the quest for smaller chips and larger profits have compelled us to sacrifice the very things that give us our distinctive characteristic of humanness: ethics, morals, and values. But there is no God in this.
Are we, on this occasion, pushing the limits? Is science the infamous Tower of Babel - will our own creation become our downfall? If there is a God, perhaps we are merely a prototype, for what God offers his people power, but no moral framework to tell you how to use that power? For surely, a God cannot be both omnipotent and benevolent.
Is this an indication that there is no God - that He is metaphorical? An image conjured for the weak, the poor, the lonely - those who are just searching for a truth that ideally happens to be greater than ourselves? Maybe people believe in God because they don't have any other explanation for things that happen. The time for paradigm shift is bearing down upon us. Science is bringing home the answers.
And then, perhaps, the only difference between God and us is that we have forgotten we are divine.
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Trees Are Beautiful
Diamonds are rare; gold expensive, and yet, who would have thought that something as simple as a tree could be priceless? It tells us that there's much more to nature's bounty than we'd originally imagined. Only subtle intricacies separate us humans from the natural beauty of a tree.
They begin their journey as seedlings, a little bundle of potential. The babies grow, nurtured by their parent. With the aid of nature, they find their way to terra firma, into the increasingly dangerous world. There, she huddles, clutching firmly to the bosom of the earth.
Come wind, come rain; and so this seedling blossoms. Her graceful smile catches the eye of many. Surrounded by many like her; threatened by many who are not. Trapping rays of vibrancy and warmth; she learns, she adapts, and she grows.
An adolescent she becomes, and finds her foundation. Gently extending her tapering roots into the heart of the world, she chooses her environment carefully. She rises above those around her, brandishing her weapons of stability and potential. She extends her help with slender branches, and her purposeful leaves that reach to the heavens, as if saluting her creator. A rainbow adorns her in the form of flowers, screaming for attention.
When she finds satisfaction, the clock begins to tick toward her prime. She fills a new role now, that of an expectant mother. Soon she shall produce her heir. She envelops her seed in a warm fleshy cloak of sweetness, nurturing her babies for as long as possible, until time comes to part ways. Such is the selflessness of a mother.
How familiar this story sounds, for it is the story of our lives. We are that simple seedling, and so do we have such potential to rise above the earth in honour of our devoted parents, to become the recipient of such praise and love. Just as the subject of our story finds her purpose, it, too, becomes our duty to give our characters of life direction.
To say that the complexity of the human in its entirety can still be compared in equal measures to the simplicity of the tree, is our assurance that humility leads to righteousness.
Thus, trees are simply beautiful.
They begin their journey as seedlings, a little bundle of potential. The babies grow, nurtured by their parent. With the aid of nature, they find their way to terra firma, into the increasingly dangerous world. There, she huddles, clutching firmly to the bosom of the earth.
Come wind, come rain; and so this seedling blossoms. Her graceful smile catches the eye of many. Surrounded by many like her; threatened by many who are not. Trapping rays of vibrancy and warmth; she learns, she adapts, and she grows.
An adolescent she becomes, and finds her foundation. Gently extending her tapering roots into the heart of the world, she chooses her environment carefully. She rises above those around her, brandishing her weapons of stability and potential. She extends her help with slender branches, and her purposeful leaves that reach to the heavens, as if saluting her creator. A rainbow adorns her in the form of flowers, screaming for attention.
When she finds satisfaction, the clock begins to tick toward her prime. She fills a new role now, that of an expectant mother. Soon she shall produce her heir. She envelops her seed in a warm fleshy cloak of sweetness, nurturing her babies for as long as possible, until time comes to part ways. Such is the selflessness of a mother.
How familiar this story sounds, for it is the story of our lives. We are that simple seedling, and so do we have such potential to rise above the earth in honour of our devoted parents, to become the recipient of such praise and love. Just as the subject of our story finds her purpose, it, too, becomes our duty to give our characters of life direction.
To say that the complexity of the human in its entirety can still be compared in equal measures to the simplicity of the tree, is our assurance that humility leads to righteousness.
Thus, trees are simply beautiful.
Education and Experience
Examination is formidable, even to the best prepared; for the greatest fool may ask more than the wisest man can answer.
There is no school equal to a decent home, and no teachers equal to honest, virtuous parents. This is how we live - by experience, intuition and advice; all of which we subconsciously merge together to form an intricate and complicated mindset, that which is our own. For many a century, it was all man had to live by, to face his decisions in a world of unexplored possibilities. They are my models for the practical man. But one has to argue: experience is an expensive tutor.
The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet. Knowledgeable men are among the most revered today, both for their intellect and their uncanny ability to parade as walking encyclopaedias. These men, who have known little else but the realms of books, who are tutors in life lessons, are my models for the theoretical man, and have only these to allude to his eminence. But one might argue: education is merely a state-controlled manufactory of echoes.
Surely time is a test of trouble - for man has revolutionised himself from one extreme to another. But the observing eye would look for the point at which education and experience unite to form a culmination of sorts, which leads to successful decision-making.
Life is the art of drawing without an eraser. And in saying so, education is not water to experience's oil, but rather like a sharpener to a pencil. For in decision-making, the human mind would first explore the hard drives, or memories, and then apply knowledge to reason and rationalise to make a logical choice. Thus in the same way, education, when co-joined with experience, literally makes for sharper choices. Like white wine is to chicken, they are meant to complement each other, for life itself is educational.
It is for this reason, none can be the better teacher, for true wisdom is obtained in the coming together of both these forces: practical education and formal education.
This is, after all, the well-balanced recipe for calculated consequences.
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
I Can't Think Of A Title
Today's post is about investments. Okay, no. Moving on...
How exactly are the different stages of development deciphered?
Paul Dirac once commented, "A person who has not made his greatest contribution to science before the age of thirty will never do so." History is replete with stories of prodigies in both sciences and the arts. These people are renowned in society - but more for their exceptionalism than their ingeniousness.
But it is wise to acknowledge that the world as we know it was not borne of children.
On the road to great achievement, the late bloomer will resemble a failure: while the late bloomer is revising and despairing and changing course; what he or she produces will look like the kind of thing produced by the artist who will never bloom at all. These people are ridiculed at the first attempt, because this is what society does. Society wants instant gratification, always.
Prodigies are easy. They advertise their genius from the get-go. Late bloomers are hard. They require forbearance and a trusting audience. Whenever we find a late bloomer, we can't but wonder how many others like him or her we have thwarted because we prematurely judged their talents. But we also have to accept that there's nothing we can do about it. How can we ever know which of the 'failures' will end up blooming? There isn't an obvious pattern to this.
This begs the inclusion of an age old battle: Education or Experience?
Ingenuity and talent as opposed to wisdom and mastery.
The effects of ageing on cognition, achievement, and creativity is a subject worthy of more research, but perhaps it is also important to note that ordinary late-life contentment is worth more than extraordinary achievement.
Not everyone is destined to be a mathematician.
How exactly are the different stages of development deciphered?
Paul Dirac once commented, "A person who has not made his greatest contribution to science before the age of thirty will never do so." History is replete with stories of prodigies in both sciences and the arts. These people are renowned in society - but more for their exceptionalism than their ingeniousness.
But it is wise to acknowledge that the world as we know it was not borne of children.
On the road to great achievement, the late bloomer will resemble a failure: while the late bloomer is revising and despairing and changing course; what he or she produces will look like the kind of thing produced by the artist who will never bloom at all. These people are ridiculed at the first attempt, because this is what society does. Society wants instant gratification, always.
Prodigies are easy. They advertise their genius from the get-go. Late bloomers are hard. They require forbearance and a trusting audience. Whenever we find a late bloomer, we can't but wonder how many others like him or her we have thwarted because we prematurely judged their talents. But we also have to accept that there's nothing we can do about it. How can we ever know which of the 'failures' will end up blooming? There isn't an obvious pattern to this.
This begs the inclusion of an age old battle: Education or Experience?
Ingenuity and talent as opposed to wisdom and mastery.
The effects of ageing on cognition, achievement, and creativity is a subject worthy of more research, but perhaps it is also important to note that ordinary late-life contentment is worth more than extraordinary achievement.
Not everyone is destined to be a mathematician.
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
It's A Blacked Out Blur, But I'm Pretty Sure It Ruled
Is it ever wrong to miss someone?
Revelations in the early morning.
I've always told myself that my solipsism keeps me from feeling anything for another person. Feelings are not real; they're not tangible.
But here I am, writing about missing him. I do miss him. Stockholm's Syndrome, perhaps? I felt like a prisoner, and he felt like my captor. But I was his world, just as he was mine. Is that really such a bad thing?
'Never regret anything that once made you smile.' I'm doing just that - remembering why I smiled. Katya would smile.
I thought I'd be over this. In fact, I'd never have thought it would even come to this. Is this my 500 Days of Summer? Perhaps I will move on, but I could never forget.
To some degree, I find solace in the fact that I'm sharing these feelings with someone, somewhere. Maybe he still hurts because what are now memories to me are experiences he's still living. He hasn't forgotten the smiles, or the whys behind them. That magic is somewhere. But there won't be a repeat of this part of history. At least not now. Perhaps after his 500 Days. Maybe we're just waiting to miss each other enough to return. Maybe we need never return.
What is this love I'm trying so hard to define? Is that what should matter? What I need to define is happiness. If I know what makes me happy, I will know what I love.
My point is: I love remembering.
Because when the flood of mixed emotions that a moment encapsulates are over, only the good ones remain. We've been self-healing all along. It's just too soon to have realised it.
Revelations in the early morning.
I've always told myself that my solipsism keeps me from feeling anything for another person. Feelings are not real; they're not tangible.
But here I am, writing about missing him. I do miss him. Stockholm's Syndrome, perhaps? I felt like a prisoner, and he felt like my captor. But I was his world, just as he was mine. Is that really such a bad thing?
'Never regret anything that once made you smile.' I'm doing just that - remembering why I smiled. Katya would smile.
I thought I'd be over this. In fact, I'd never have thought it would even come to this. Is this my 500 Days of Summer? Perhaps I will move on, but I could never forget.
To some degree, I find solace in the fact that I'm sharing these feelings with someone, somewhere. Maybe he still hurts because what are now memories to me are experiences he's still living. He hasn't forgotten the smiles, or the whys behind them. That magic is somewhere. But there won't be a repeat of this part of history. At least not now. Perhaps after his 500 Days. Maybe we're just waiting to miss each other enough to return. Maybe we need never return.
What is this love I'm trying so hard to define? Is that what should matter? What I need to define is happiness. If I know what makes me happy, I will know what I love.
My point is: I love remembering.
Because when the flood of mixed emotions that a moment encapsulates are over, only the good ones remain. We've been self-healing all along. It's just too soon to have realised it.
Sunday, 25 December 2011
Matter of Prepositions
Words are an extraordinary thing.
How easy it is to change our train of thought with a simple word replacement.
For example: 'I am scared of him...' as opposed to 'I am scared for him...'
I know good grammar has never been well-practiced among my counterparts, but for those who understand the difference, those two clauses have very different tones.
Who, in the example, is the proverbial bigger person? Many factors affect that conclusion, yes, but what does fear mean to the individual?
What does it mean to be afraid of oneself?
By what means do we size ourselves up to others?
How big a role does empathy play in how we feel about others?
This is what it means to be human - stuck between the instincts of our animalistic natures and our godlike state of mind; the teenagers of existence, again, still finding our place among others and within this realm we cannot escape.
How easy it is to change our train of thought with a simple word replacement.
For example: 'I am scared of him...' as opposed to 'I am scared for him...'
I know good grammar has never been well-practiced among my counterparts, but for those who understand the difference, those two clauses have very different tones.
Who, in the example, is the proverbial bigger person? Many factors affect that conclusion, yes, but what does fear mean to the individual?
What does it mean to be afraid of oneself?
By what means do we size ourselves up to others?
How big a role does empathy play in how we feel about others?
This is what it means to be human - stuck between the instincts of our animalistic natures and our godlike state of mind; the teenagers of existence, again, still finding our place among others and within this realm we cannot escape.
Somewhere I Belong
I was fascinated at how lucid I could be in times of great distress and pain. Perhaps my subconscious was sure I was wanting the same thing.
I cannot yet imagine what it feels like to lose a child, but I assume the finality of death is better dealt with than not knowing how they're faring. I still believe we were put on Earth as a social experiment of great magnitude. We are all our own beings, fashioned from others, but yet an invisible bond holds us to each other in a way that we cannot quantify.
The same is not observed for other worldly creatures, which helps substantiate my notion of us not belonging here naturally.
This is the great war we fight - with the world, with each other, with ourselves: Is there anywhere we truly belong? It's why we wander, it's why we're at an unrest.
We're all looking for signs.
For something that could tell us we're finally home.
I cannot yet imagine what it feels like to lose a child, but I assume the finality of death is better dealt with than not knowing how they're faring. I still believe we were put on Earth as a social experiment of great magnitude. We are all our own beings, fashioned from others, but yet an invisible bond holds us to each other in a way that we cannot quantify.
The same is not observed for other worldly creatures, which helps substantiate my notion of us not belonging here naturally.
This is the great war we fight - with the world, with each other, with ourselves: Is there anywhere we truly belong? It's why we wander, it's why we're at an unrest.
We're all looking for signs.
For something that could tell us we're finally home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)