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"It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden's secret. Drop him out a window and he'll fall. Set fire to him and he'll burn. Bury him and he'll rot like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden's secret. Ripeness was all."
-Joseph Heller, Catch-22
Last week I discussed how life is something that takes place inside. It is a solitary experience. But there is another dimension to life that makes it even more amazing to me. Life is a single force which animates each of us; which takes the form of so many transitory entities, yet always remains.
There are only two things that make up this planet. There is the environment, and there are living things. We might not ever know what creates the distinction between them. What causes one lump of matter to be inanimate, and another to be a living thing? I know of no way to explain it, but there is obviously some sort of living force that resides in all creatures. What are the characteristics of this force? Well, life is that which moves against entropy. It becomes complex as things crumble, it grows as things decay, it chooses as things just happen. Life goes against physics' rules.
Life's hold on matter is fragile. We living beings are amazing collections of functioning parts, amazing in their complexity and their design. But give one of us a good whack with a shovel and it's all over. Life fades that quickly, and we're left with a pile of matter.
Yet life is more enduring than anything. It is constantly recreating itself through procreation. From humble beginnings, billions of organisms can come about. A mosquito can lay 150,000,000 young in one year, each carrying that spark of life in full force. And evolution creates an ever-diverging tree of species. Life grows more diverse and more numerous by the day. Though the individual dies so easily, the numbers grow so quickly. Entropy claims its victims, but life outraces it.
Every living being is composed of this very same vital force. Far in the past, the first living things arose. And they have passed on the trait that set them apart from matter. How the first living being came into being, I don't know, but procreation has spread that being's essence across the globe, into every nook and cranny. The living force that once had one single form, now has billions of progeny. Yet the force is the same. All living beings continue to drive it onward. Our children guarantee the continuation of life, and evolution slowly does the same. This life force will take new forms in the future, as old species fall extinct. But each traces its history back to the same ancestors.
It is the vital force within me that has created the experience of life. That living force is mine alone, and thus life is a solitary experience. But life is also a community. Every other person I meet has a bit of that same force within them, from the same source. Although we each live our own lives, within our own minds, we all share the same nature and the same future. Each of us human beings have borrowed a portion of this life force for our time on earth. Every being has borrowed it, and when we die we return it. We may increase the force through children, or we could decrease it through murder, but that small bit that we have taken will one day be repaid to the soil.
I suppose my view on things isn't very spiritual. But if you're looking for a greater being, how about Life? How about that force of which you are a momentary facet? It is all around us, and it is inside us. It might not be eternal, but it comes as close as we can hope for. I can find miracles in the chance I've had to be alive; the knowledge that this form may die, but life does not; in the simplest and most beautiful creations of life. In return I can do all I can to give back to life. I can live a life that has a positive impact on life: that increases it and makes it better. I can take joy in my part on earth.
If life is a solitary experience, as I have previously stated, then why am I bothering to write this? If I take joy in the perfection of thoughts, then why do I dirty them with words? I'm afraid what we've run into is one of the basic tenets of life: it's all true. Unfortunately for those who like to set their feet, life never rests on one side or the other. Life believes in opposites, contradiction and duality. The wise mind can grasp two opposites and know them both. Life is solitary; life is communication. They're both true, and I'll make no attempt to prove it can be so.
And idea in mind is a different thing than an idea spoken. In mind, an idea is perfect, like a glowing sphere; it's complete. Yet, it's not explicit. Your mind understands it; it therefore has no need to explain. The details fit so perfectly into the workings of your mind. But when brought into the light, they are indistinct. Words serve the purpose of not only making ideas clearer for others, but for yourself as well.
When you bring an idea into the world, you'll find that it's never quite as perfect as it once was. But in return you'll find that it's more mature, more sophisticated, more understood. When an idea's in your mind, it's easy. You don't have to detail it, defend it, or explain it. So what it gives you in understanding it lacks in clarity and fullness. I can summarize one of my ideas in one thought. When I want to write down this idea, I discover that a thought is a small, but complex, thing. It must be unraveled, laid out and examined. And in the process it becomes more than what it was. The work of translation is transferred into a greater idea.
When I am writing, I am creating. I start with my thought, but the act of describing it requires me to develop it further. My mind whirs, not just trying to decide how to say it, but creating new things to say. If writing was only translating I wouldn't bother. But in writing I discover things I have never thought before. Writing is a different language than thought, and it allows you to say different things.
Writing is a way of communicating with yourself. That's why writers continue to write even when no one is reading. There are many ways to get into your inside: listening to your thoughts, meditating, testing your courage. Writing is one of these. Through writing, I tell myself things that I could not have otherwise discovered. Ideas that I gave a quick nod to in my head, become whole philosophies on paper. This article itself was once just a thought in my head. Translated, the thought could be 'writing is a way of fully developing ideas.' But the process of writing turned this thought into a whole article of ideas and sentences. It certainly is an imperfect process, for you readers will never exactly understand what I'm trying to say. But if I had not attempted it, I would not have known what I had to say.
When I say that we must be content with the world inside ourselves, I don't mean that we must sit at home with our thoughts. There are more than one way of learning about ourselves. You can learn about yourself from writing, or talking to others, or playing a game. What I am trying to say is, reach out of yourself. But don't look outside of yourself for satisfaction, or answers, or life. Be content with the life you live inside, but make it richer by the ways you reach outside.
A Simple Twist Of Fate, by Bob DylanThey sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark.
She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones.
'Twas then he felt alone, And wished that he'd gone straight
And watched out for a simple twist of fate.
They walked along by the old canal
A little confused, I remember well
And stopped into a renovated hotel with a neon burnin' bright.
He felt the heat of the night hit him like a freight train
Moving with a simple twist of fate.
A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walkin' by the arcade.
As the light bust through a beat-up shade where he was wakin' up.
She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate.
And forgot about a simple twist of fate.
He woke up, the room was bare
He didn't see her anywhere.
He told himself he didn't care, pushed the window open wide,
Felt an emptiness inside to which he just could not relate
Brought on by a simple twist of fate.
He hears the ticking of the clocks
And walks along with a parrot that talks,
Hunts her down by the waterfront docks where the sailors all come in.
Maybe she'll pick him out again, how long must he wait
Once more for a simple twist of fate.
People tell me it's a sin
To know and feel too much within.
I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring.
She was born in spring, but I was born too late
Blame it on a simple twist of fate.
Alternate Last Verse
People tell me it's a crime
To remember her for too long a time.
She should have caught me in my prime, she would have stayed with me.
Instead of heading back off to sea,
Leaving me here to meditate upon a simple twist of fate.
I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mourning dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
-Bob Dylan
The End