On Building Character

“Patience is not passive; on the contrary, it is active; it is concentrated strength” - Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

This quote really touched me, but initially I wasn’t sure why. So I did a little research:

c.1225, "quality of being patient in suffering," from O.Fr. pacience, from L. patientia "patience, endurance," from patientem (nom. patiens), prp. of pati "to suffer, endure"

‘quality of being patient in suffering’
‘to suffer, endure’

I had no idea. I guess there are many things we could learn from studying the etymology of a word.

If this is the case, then patience is not only a virtue; it is a trait that should qualify one for sainthood. It is easy to see why Bulwer-Lytton implies that patience is active - a ‘concentrated strength’; for in order to achieve it, we must endure through the pain of waiting, as usually that which we seek may not happen right away.

Next time you are standing in line at the store or the bank, stopped at the intersection impatiently watching the traffic signals, or sitting in a dark room at midnight waiting for a child or spouse to come home, think of what you are really doing. Is the choice you are making passive: as in you are willing to allow things to happen and accept all that comes from it? Or are you being active and participating in what has happened, what will happen, and more importantly how you will react to it? I don’t believe there is a right or wrong here; it is simply that we always have a choice and no matter what choice we make, we must learn to abide by what comes of it.

I must admit, I am weak sometimes and do not have the strength to deal with some of curves that life throws my way. I defer to others to help, or even make, some of the hard decisions for me. That being said, I know I can never complain about the outcome, because I made the choice to be passive instead of active in the process.

If we take the time to think things through, to apply all that we have learned from the mistakes we have made, and use all the strength we possess to wait when we feel that things in our life should be happening a lot sooner than they are; then patience is truly virtuous and makes us stronger than we could ever have thought possible.

Patience is indeed active, even if it feels like all we are doing is nothing; because in the grand scheme of things, we are not. We are quietly building character. And what could be better than that?

RE: A Modest Poetry Challenge

Kate over at Kate's Book Blog offered this challenge:

The challenge is simply to post about poetry at least once in the month of April. The post could be a review of a collection of poetry, a broader meditation on the work of a favorite poet, or a detailed analysis of a single poem. Simply posting a poem doesn't count unless you go on to say something about that poem. The idea is to dare to be critical (as in analytical, not necessarily negative) and venture an opinion.

Of all the challenges I have been offered, and of those in which I have chosen to participate, this one offers to not only teach me more about poetry, but perhaps myself. What poetry do I like? What affects me and how? There are two poems that come immediately to mind, one of which is Life after Death by Ted Hughes.

Not long ago I had taken a class where one of the required readings was The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Of course it brought up the discussion of her life, attempted suicides, and her husband at the time, Ted Hughes.

As part of the class we read poems by Plath and Hughes. One in particular struck my heart so hard, that I had to put it into my commonplace book. (As an aside, other than my own poetry, I have two poems pasted into this book. The one I discuss here and the other by Andrew Marvell. Marvell’s poem was introduced to me by Audrey Niffenegger in her book The Time Traveler’s Wife. It is interesting that both poems have affected me due to their connection to the tragic loss of a loved one. I cannot read either without being nearly moved to tears.)

Many had, and still do, question the effect Hughes had upon Plath’s suicide. I will not get into that here. But, after reading this poem, I do not think I could ever question the effect Plath’s suicide had on Hughes and their children.

I am not sure I am allowed to post the entire poem, but I will give you a few excerpts. If they intrigue you, the poem can be found in this collection: Birthday Letters (1998).

What can I tell you that you do not know
Of the life after death?

Your son’s eyes which had unsettled us
With your Slavic Asiatic
Epicanthic fold, but would become
So perfectly your eyes,
Became wet jewels,
The hardest substance of the purest pain
As I fed him in his high white chair.
Great hands of grief were wringing and wringing
His wet cloth of face. They wrung out his tears.
But his mouth betrayed you – it accepted
The spoon in my disembodied hand
That reached through from the life that had survived you.

**
Dropped from life
We three made a deep silence
In our separate cots.

**
As my body sank into the folk-tale
Where the wolves are singing in the forest
For two babes, who have turned, in their sleep,
Into orphans
Beside the corpse of their mother.

This is so powerful, so painful; it is a poem that can be read, and re-read, and in this repetition never lose its ability to overwhelm the senses.

I hope you too have found a poem that has touched you in such a way, and look forward to reading about them in your posts and comments.

Am I normal? Do I want to be?

In the article, “A Fine Madness: Sanity and Creativity”, author John Leinhard asks the question “Is it possible to be creative and live a normal life?”

The author himself is posed this question and he answers, “You cannot be inventive and live a normal life.” Further on in the reading he clarifies that “invention itself parts company with normality” because “at some point you have to go where others have not gone.”

I interpret these statements to mean that there is an apparent need to go beyond oneself in order to find a course of action which no other has developed first. A true artist does not wish to re-invent the wheel. They must create, they must be original, and they MUST be different.

Many would say that great artists are gifted individuals; however they themselves would describe their talent, their gift, as something quite different. What kind of gift would require that the creative process is one where they must continually walk a fine line between social acceptance and derision? The author appears to confirm this point when he writes, “Without creativity we are nothing. But, when we step off onto those unexpected side roads that intersect the main arteries of our thinking, we are not welcome. Change is a threat to the world around us.”

Edgar Allan Poe once said:

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence-whether much that is glorious-whether all that is profound-does not spring from disease of thought-from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

According to Poe, gifted artists are aware of ‘many things’ that others cannot see or understand because they adhere to a strict interpretation of how and when one ‘dreams’; they are bound by their ‘general intellect’. In my opinion, most people rationalize each action in order to ensure social correctness and connectivity, and in that way, I perceive that gifted artists are more anti-rational than anti-social. It is not that they really wish to distance themselves from societal norms as much as they simply wish to work in an environment where there are no roadblocks to their creativity.

Does that mean it is possible to be creative and live a normal life? I would say no.

To me, anyone who wishes to be truly creative must be willing to accept that any artistic endeavor requires sacrifice and dedication, even if it is at the cost of being perceived as eccentric.

Personally, I would revel in the ability to take advantage of all the dreams around me, rather than be limited to only experiencing the ones at night, which frequently are forgotten in the morning light of rationality.

Virtues

Henry David Thoreau writes:

When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence that petty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality.

This idea to slow down and take notice of what is truly significant intrigues me. What qualities (virtues) do we value in life, and why? Do they “have any permanent and absolute existence” or are they “the shadow of the reality”?

What virtues do I value? Do they hold up to the light of integrity, or are they merely a shadow cast by pettiness?

There are many qualities which I value, such as sincerity and humility. However, at the top of my list is self-respect. I had never really thought about its importance, until I read an essay by Joan Didion called On Self-Respect.

Self-respect is accepting yourself for who you truly are – faults and all. It is essential that we accept the responsibility, and the consequences of our decisions. The courage is not in making hard choices, but in living through them and coming out the other side a better person. The most difficult aspect of this virtue is to understand that self perception, as well as self-respect, is not contingent upon what others think of us. To quote Didion, “The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others – who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation...is something people with courage can do without.”

Any virtue which has “any permanent and absolute existence,” cannot be possible without the courage to look beyond what others think of us, and realize that the only approval we require, is our own. As Didion noted, “Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception.”

Self-respect takes courage and commitment. It is a challenge I face daily. But as I get older, I find that the light of wisdom shines ever brightly, thus making it easier to find my way. No, the path is not a smooth one, but at least I can finally see my way around the debris of doubt.