In A Hidden Wholeness, Parker J Palmer writes about the “moral exoskeleton” most of us put on hoping to prop ourselves up. This is not just for religious groups. This is everyone. We decide what it is we value and we prop ourselves up with it, as though we were inexorably hollow beneath it all. Continue reading
Putting ourselves out there, particularly with our creative work is scary for all of us. Perhaps it’s because when we are being creative–and I’m using the word very loosely to include any form of self-expression–we are completely vulnerable and leave ourselves open a world of criticism. Continue reading
“That men do not learn very much from the lessons of history is the most important of all the lessons of history.” – Aldous Huxley.
I’m not (overly) ashamed to read the occasional self-help book, as long as it’s not poorly written and isn’t too ‘self-helpy’. Today I was reading A Hidden Wholeness, by Parker J Palmer. So far, this book seems to be pretty good. It’s more about Parker’s view on the need for social change and his suggestions for how we can create it, rather than some bullshitty nonsense. Continue reading
I don’t know what to do with my hands as I stand at the door and wait to meet my idol: writer, legend, Phillip Herns. I switch between holding them in front of me and placing them in my pockets. I’ve never noticed my hands this much before, they’ve never seemed this cumbersome. Continue reading
I’ve read ol’ Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert twice now: the first time I read it, which was 10 years ago, I FRIGGEN HATED IT. The second time, which finished it yesterday, I LOVED IT. I have to put my emotions in capitals because this book got me right in the feels in two completely different ways.
I’m not sure what I’m going to blog about this week.
Sometimes, the only way to figure out what to write is to start writing. This is the stuff writers’ workshops are made of – “free writing”, they call it. It’s where you unleash all your hidden thoughts onto paper, often surprising yourself with what comes out, writing about topics that you hadn’t even noticed were lying dormant, deep in your subconscious.
This is a section of the poem The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, by Mary Oliver. It’s one of the few poems she wrote about dealing with lung cancer.
I walk past the old
buildings of my hometown
and think of the
who’ve walked the same path
perhaps with same stride.
And as their heels lift
they turn to dust.
(Perhaps remembering death is the best way
to remember to stay alive?)
It’s kind of disheartening when you delve deep enough into physics to come to the conclusion that free will can only be an illusion. We think we have a choice: we feel conflicted when we choose where to live, what to eat, or which pair of socks to put on of a morning. But much like the flow of time, which seems to be so undeniably real and linear but is not, our free will may be nothing more than an illusion.
Love is a Dog From Hell – 1977