Category Archives: Thoughts on Life

Thoughts on life, things I’ve learned while roaming the Earth.

More Thoughts on Life From the Mountainside

January 11, 2010

Here are some more thoughts on life in an excerpt from the manuscript Mountainside.  This excerpt comes at a time when an entire cloud had enveloped the mountainside while we were inside the mountain exploring a steep cave.  We had entered the cave through a series of boulders, and had traveled down a jagged slope, until finally finding an exit on the other side.  Upon seeing it, it was almost as though we had come out to find a completely different world, this one shrouded in mist.   I’ve quoted from parts of this before, if it seems somewhat familiar.  I hope you enjoy:

“Moving slowly, I began a descent, one which grew more difficult with every passing step.  I nearly slipped beyond recovery at times, clinging with all my might to the smooth stone I crawled down.  The floor of the exit was only a few feet below.  I could hear the breeze from beyond and could see thin strips of mist entering and disappearing below.  With one final leap, I left the wall and landed on the dusty floor of the third compartment, scattering the mist that silently flowed with the breeze across the ground.

I marveled as I looked down about my feet, enchanted by the thin dusting of mist that suddenly shot up from the ground into the air from the tromping of my feet. But then, only a second later, the mist once more settled around me — I, now a part of the little-changing world, just another slight impediment to which the fog twisted skillfully by being pushed slowly forward by the breeze until finally coming to rest at a spot it could not navigate, heaping up into a pile by the cave’s far wall behind me, climbing heavenward a few feet in futility and then sinking back down again, swirling in quiet frustration with nowhere left to travel.

I was mesmerized by the sight before me, and also by the sheer stillness of this world.  Outside the cave, but also within, the mist was ever creeping and moving, blanketing the landscape in a mysterious softness, as though the fog possessed an ethereal quality that both pacified the mind and invigorated the imagination.  I now stood staring out into the openness of what was to be our exit.  We had seen the mist earlier, creeping along the valley, mingling with a world yet untouched by man.  Now it had done its work fully, passing through the valley and even to the places beyond, climbing the walls of the mountain ahead of us.  The whole mountain was being consumed by a quiet steady gray.  Soon we would plunge ourselves into the midst of it.

My friend joined me at length, once more the mist erupting in complaint, and then continuing on its course, trapped by the constant breeze that drove it past our feet.  We wandered around the cave awhile and at last came to rest at the back wall where the mist was heaping up and swirling about with nowhere left to travel.  We stooped down and sat with our backs against the wall, watching the silent mist creep slowly up our bodies, crashing weightlessly into our chests and swirling about in complaint.  It was beautiful. There was something perfect here, something indefinable and rare that led our minds to wander about a sphere of dreams larger than those possible in the civilized world.

It reminded me yet again of the untold promise found in the solitude of lonely morning places.  Dreams are larger in places such as these — the things the mind can invent and imagine, of a richer substance and more tangibly real.  Here, in places where mystery and solitude have combined to form landscapes rare and beautiful, the mind is brought to its own inner landscape, a landscape brimming with imaginings more vibrant and alive that those of the average day to day, dreams holding possibilities unseen in the world below.

The aspirations of what we, as men, might accomplish with our lives are often small in the stifled air that comes to rest on the places where man congregates.  With so much to settle for in the world below, hope is often cheap and commonly wasted on simple things.  Grand things seem less attainable, even less desirable.  For while the mist, in places such as these, proclaims that the world is full of mystery and potential, the strangled air of the cities proclaims that nothing beyond the ordinary will ever be accomplished. We believe we are small because we live and move in small places, choking on the stifled air that comes to rest in regions where life is settled for rather than sought.  One thing I can say with confidence: My aspiration to live a life more rare and grand than what is commonly seen always grows after travels such as these.  Why did the Lord make us such a grand creation if not to inspire us to equally grand and heroic things?  We are evidence of His grand and wondrous nature.  As sharers of His image, we should seek the grand as well, not with vain and selfish hearts, but simply to fulfill our shared right as image-bearers of a Grand Creator.

Such were the thoughts that flooded my mind as we stood surrounded by the mighty stone walls of the cave.  We both hovered near the back wall where we had emerged, staring out of what was to be our exit from this cave.  Swiftly we departed in silence and headed on, leaving only a convulsive wisp of mist behind as we dove into gray.”

Mountainside If you liked this post, you’ll love the rest of Ben’s book Mountainside.


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Thoughts on Life from the Mountainside

January 4, 2010

The following is an excerpt from one of my manuscripts called Mountainside, which is the writings and thoughts on life that I penned while out exploring the wilds of nature with a friend.  I was rereading it this weekend and wanted to share an excerpt.  This excerpt is from the middle of our trip, right after we had spent an hour on top of a boulder cliff looking out over a broad valley:

“We passed by something which we had not noticed before, a recessed room within the very boulder we still walked upon.  It was a cutout of sorts within the top of the rock itself, quite large and spacious.  The cutout was a rectangular shape and recessed down into the boulder about four feet.  Gazing at it further, we surmised that some ancient powerful tremor had cut the stone in two and slid the top third of the boulder a few feet to the right, forming a stone walkway which led to the ledge of the cliff we had just been on, and also the same force which had made this out-of-place recess in the stone we now peered at.  Examining it in this new light, it looked as if the boulder was really two boulders, one sitting slightly out of alignment and on top of the other.

As we entered the stone room, the toe of my boot made contact with an object I had not seen; it let out a complaint of high pitched sounds as it flew haphazardly across the stone floor.  I could not discern what it was I had unintentionally kicked.  I waited for the sound to stop and then searched the floor earnestly, sliding my hands across the smooth cold stone.  After a few moments, I managed to come upon its location.

There it sat, a tiny piece of glass, hiding in the corner, still wounded from my careless boot.  I picked it up and eyed it carefully.  Perfectly disguised it was, with its murky brown complexion.  It would have fit expertly into the natural world, if not for the sound it made which testified that it didn’t belong.  It was a stranger in this rectangular world of stone, a wayfarer that had ended its journey to rest within a comfortable home.  And though its color aptly camouflaged it in the pebbled ground, something in this place wouldn’t let the poor glass get away with its disguise.

I laid it down on the ground and struck it again, this time intentionally with the toe of my boot.  I watched it dance across the floor of stone.  Its weak and high pitched call announced that it was not native to this world of stone.  Material of human construction has not yet withstood the test of time as these ancient boulders have.  The stones in this place are not yet willing to let those of a weaker nature acquire a place within their private home.  I felt pity for the tiny piece of glass and its lack of confidence, surrounded by such mighty stone.

I looked down for one of the small rocks scattered sparsely about the stone floor.  I found one and struck it with my boot to compare its nature with that of the glass.  Instantly the little rock resonated a strong, deep tone, not afraid to show what it was made of, already having been tried and tested in the ancient world from whence it came.  It had no doubts about its character.  After a moment, it came to rest in the northeast corner next to the glass.  I looked at them lying side by side in the corner.  And I thought of the nature of man.  How many still lack confidence, having never been tested or tried in the world around them?  “Rejoice in trials and give thanks,” the Bible says, for that will show us what we are made of.  To know the limits of our character and resolve, that is what takes us from being glass to rock.”


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Cutting Firewood and Wild Berries

August 28, 2009

I wandered into the backwoods of my aunt and uncles property yesterday to cut some trees for firewood.  The air was cool beneath the quiet dark, and we roamed it slowly, searching for crop of deadwood still standing that we had seen before.  On the way we happened upon something unexpected, a patch of wild berries, which we stopped awhile to eat.  And sitting for a time beneath the swaying limbs of trees, my mind was coaxed to life by the sweetness of the nectar and something inexplicable beneath the ever-dark’ning woods, thoughts of wild berries and cut firewood give way to something larger.

It’s an odd thing to do a job which men before have done for thousands of years — and roam beneath a forest older than even the town it now encircles.  Something about it brings strange aspirations and feelings to mind.  Here, life is simple, traditional… satisfying.  I have noticed something interesting while sitting on my chair overlooking the woods.  Thoughts seem to set their own pace.  In the city where I grew up, thoughts seem more hurried, more in want of solutions than of anything else, and they stomp through the mind in search of their answers.  But here in the woods, thoughts seem more a restless wanderer, inviting me to along to see what may be found.  And what are we looking for?  Perhaps nothing at all.  Perhaps simply marveling at life, overtaken by that familiar deep sense of well-being just to be alive at all.  A storm’s coming.  Glad to have the firewood underneath the woodshed.

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Our Age of Communication

July 14, 2009

It’s ironic to me that we call the modern era the Age of Communication.  One obvious example.  A lack of communication is listed as the leading cause of breakdowns in marriages and relationships.  So how is our era the Age of Communication when the divorce rate is higher than it has ever been?  I came across an interesting quote awhile back that I think explains this phenomena very well.  “The more the words, the less the meaning, and how does that profit anyone?“  It struck me, because it reminded me a great deal of our modern era.  Though in our modern era, communication abounds, with text messaging, emails, and constant updates on facebook and twitter, meaningful communication seems to be dwindling rapidly.  The Age of Communication is almost like a great roar drowning out the honest, rare whispers of wise counsel.  Our Age of Communication seems like a sham to me — an age which knows fewer words, yet preaches them all the louder in order to make up for it.

If I could liken it to something for a moment, the Age of Communication seems similar to another modern phenomenon: ambient light.  There’s a hilltop by my home that I often visit at night and watch the distant city beyond.  There it sits, enshrouded in a glow of low-level brightness pervading all the night world.  Though the ambient light is good for those traveling through the city, those wishing to gaze upward at the stars beyond are hindered and unable to take in the manifold array of tiny lights.

Our Age of Communication seems the same.  Though we as humans communicate more now than ever before, we haven’t learned how to communicate meaningfully, and our words are drowned in a hum of mediocrity.  And because of our constant communications with those around us, we never perceive what a treasure real communication is, living a life blind to the vast array of twinkling thoughts that lies just overhead.


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Melancholy — The Poet’s Definition

June 12, 2009

Something in the world seems melancholy tonight.  The stars lay veiled behind the darkened whisps of evening clouds.  As a lover of poetry, melancholy has always been a fascinating word to me. But for a long time, I struggled to find the definition of the word. When it appears in literature and poetry, it’s a concept that’s often elusive and obscure, like the night winds that rock the nearby leaves of the trees.  My chair creaks lightly against the deck as the definition of melancholy swirls through my brain. The more I read classic poetry, the more I was surprised to find that the language used by the poets on the definition and subject of melancholy was often purposefully ambiguous. They seemed hesitant to want to explain it, as though it’s some feeling that none can define.

And as I continued to read the classic poems, more and more I encountered the idea of a strange and indescribable longing locked away deeply in every human heart, a yearning for something that none can clearly define.  If one were to summarize it, they could only say that it’s simply the longing to live life to the full, to seize the day. Soren Kierkegaard defined it in Purity of Heart this way: “It seems to him, according to the poets’ explanation, as if something inexpressible thrusts itself forward from his innermost being, the unspeakable, for which indeed language has no vessel of expression. Even the longing is not the unspeakable itself. It is only the hastening after it.”

The classic poets who often talked about this feeling of melancholy and longing, confirm what Kierkegaard said by leaving the feeling ambiguous. Here are some excerpts from a few poems that talk about melancholy. Notice the same inexpressible, ambiguous nature of the wording. The first excerpt is from “The Buried Life,” by Matthew Arnold.

1

“Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,

Behold, with tears my eyes are wet.

I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll”

2

He talks about a nameless sadness, an indefinable force that makes his heart sigh. Next from “Maud Muller,” by John Greenleaf Whittier:

1

“But, when she glanced to the far-off town,

White from its hill-slope looking down,

2

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest

And a nameless longing filled her breast–”

3

Again the same language is used. When talking about melancholy, the poets are almost always purposefully vague. And yet, this very ambiguity about the human condition is probably what makes these poems so deep and powerful. The poets keep the feelings un-named, knowing that such emotions are locked away inside every human heart, that though we try, we cannot explain them, only feel them drawn out through the beauty of noble things.

There is one more excerpt that speaks to this definition of melancholy. I’ve saved it for last, because it’s the most powerful. It’s an excerpt from “The Day is Done,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

1

“The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in flight.

2

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me

That my soul cannot resist.

3

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.”

4

There is a subtle, devious sadness to the world in which we live – a sorrow that comes to call in the night, when we’re all alone under the canopy of a countless array of stars. Something within us knows that we ought to be better than we are – that our love ought to burn brighter and shine more fiercely – that our conviction and passion to live life to the full ought to always win the day, never resigning ourselves to that nagging temptation to settle for the ordinary, the mundane. Something within us understands that life was always meant to be lived to the full. And this something, when it comes to find us, though it does not bring any answers with it, it convicts us of all the cheap and common things we often settle for. This feeling, in my mind, is the definition of melancholy.

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