Torpor or Angst?
I haven't been writing much lately, and what little I have is drivel. That's how you can tell my life is just fine; I only write well when I'm depressed, lonely or otherwise melancholic. The good days are so enjoyable that I'm too busy soaking it all in to write things down. One hundred years from now, my great grandchildren will read my blog and decide that I was, in fact, a terribly morose person.
Not that today's mood would challenge that assumption. I'm feeling low, but for reasons that are damnably elusive. I'm sure I could pull out the divining rod and unearth specifics, but my feelings are frustratingly unfocused--wonderful when you're bathing in the golden blur of happiness, miserable when you're being suffocated by the blanket of depression.
I read once somewhere that we read to know we're not alone. I think that applies to writing as well, only perhaps flipped on it's head. We write hoping that we're not alone. For all I know, I could be writing about something to which no one can relate. Maybe no one else in the world preaches with funny accents about fresh fruit. Maybe not one other soul in the world cares so deeply about the ceiling. It's a gamble.
Think of all the great writers who only gained the title “great” posthumously. In their day, they were probably considered by their family and friends, and maybe even themselves, to be a flop. Emily Dickinson only had seven poems out of seventeen hundred published during her life, and those were most likely published without her permission. She wrote in great faith, or else because she had to. Maybe she was the sculptor who saw the statue in the marble and carved to set it free.
My life, like my writing, feels of little consequence. This is the hard lesson of time: you are not as important as you think you are. Don't take me wrong, I make small, frequent contributions to the world. There are people that love me and care about me. But what will the world think of me when I shuffle off this mortal coil? Is there room in tomorrow's recollection for me? Or will I simply be one tiny ink spot of hundreds that make up a photo in a history text book? Just a zero or one in the great collective knowledge base?
InterAction:
13 January 20072. Mark:
Nuts -- the last three paragraphs of my incredibly wise, well-written, encouraging post were stripped upon submission! Must have been the manually-added p tags. I'll have to make something else up...
Who supplied Paul with paper and ink in prison? Who cracked Enigma? Who was the lead engineer for Apollo 13? My point is that you don't need to be remembered to make a difference.
17 January 20073. Rachel:
I thought I might share that in my Teaching Literature course today, we all shared a bit about the teacher who inspired our imagination the most. I never had a Literature or Writing class with you, but you have had the most profound impact on my life in those areas. Simply by challenging me to read and write outside of the given curricula, you guided growth in those things. I will never forget that. Thank you for your heart for your students in those years. Your example continues to challenge this future educator. Have a blessed day knowing that a sovereign God has and will use you in ways beyond imagination. -Rachel
18 January 20074. Dad:
Your creativity, your expressiveness, your thirst for knowledge - challenge and inspire me. I'm a better person because of you.
Dad
19 January 20075. Jesse Gardner:
Well, as much as I didn't intend this to be a pity party for myself, I thank you all for your kind words. A very good reminder of three things: 1. the world is bigger than just one person; 2. our actions are "like the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream"; and 3. self-pity takes our eyes off of 1 and 2.
20 January 20076. Marlo:
Good stuff here, Jesse!
24 January 20077. Nathan:
If you feel that your writing is of little consequence, though it has inspired many, than write something of consequence. The great writers did not write accidentally, they wrote greatly because they purposed to. There are two different kinds of writers, those who celebrate mediocrity and those who scorn it. The writers who scorn mediocrity are often hated, until the mediocre rise past that mediocrity that was derided, which is why they often were not appreciated until years after their passing. Those who celebrate the mediocre are often, themselves celebrated as true geniuses. Tis better to be a hunted eagle than a caged parrot. If you cannot write out of inspired brilliance, write out of the dread of mediocrity.
YourThoughts?
(Minutia)
This entry was written by Jesse on Thursday, January 11, 2007 at 9:32 AM and appears in the Mind chapter. The previous article was entitled, "Hello, 2007.", and the next entry is called, "The Pressing Question". Bookmark the permalink, save it to del.icio.us or Digg it.
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13 January 20071. Mark:
Ahh, how much alike we are in various thoughts! While you could very well be the next Shakespeare, even the memory of him will eventually fade away. But the man who was open to the leading of the Spirit enough to be usable in the eventual salvation of Keith Gardner (whose openness to His leading was, in turn, instrumental in the salvation of Jesse Gardner), THAT man has a legacy.
It took Solomon an entire life of searching before he finally concluded "Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man."
On a lighter note, even if you are remembered hundreds of years from now, the "memories" would likely not be accurate: George Washington has now become a seed-sowing, black-hating tyrant; DaVinci was gay, and, closer, William Clinton was one of the greatest presidents America ever had! So maybe it's best that you're forgotten anyway. How's THAT for encouragement?