Trust the Universe

Does it not always seem like the Universe has our back? All the travails in life one goes through coincidentally seem to have a safety net and things resolve, despite how lacklustre or bleak they appear at the time. It is curious, this phenomenon, almost as though the course of what we refer to as ‘life’ is premeditated somehow, to the ultimate degree. It is like there is a propelling force, an onward motion that unravels a complex pattern that is already predetermined, so when it is unwound, it does so beautifully: serendipity.

When I reflect on this further I realise that whilst the outcome may not have ingratiated myself in the immediate term, I appreciate that somehow the Universe was simply trying to protect me at the time from a potential danger I did not foresee: it realised I was not ready. Sometimes the outcome is then postponed to the right time, and arguably, it bears even more fruit at this time…. it blossoms when it is supposed to.

Some people may refer to this sequence of unexplainable, but inevitable events as destiny. Yet how can an outcome simply occur without any action? Perhaps then, there is a necessity to our struggle to achieve the outcome. The consequence simply must be achieved by that individual to sew the fabric of life, so therefore that individual’s subconscious simply must keep niggling at their ego to think, to ponder, to act and not rest until they are at peace. This, I suppose, sheds light on the human intuition, a gut-wrenching anxiety that pushes us to act, yet another intangible inexplicable concept: a thing that evidence-based science cannot quantify, nor qualify.

Interestingly enough, what is it or who is it that decides the outcome? Some people ascribe this to a higher power they refer to as ‘God’, and thus we enter the metaphysical dimension of spirituality. It is an alternative reality that our five senses cannot perceive, and hence we rely on the sixth sense that in itself is even more subjective, more murky and certainly less equivocal and unidirectional than our sight, smell, hearing, touch and taste for which there already exists a level of inter-person discrepancy. I suppose what I dislike about this supposed ‘sixth sense’ then is its uncertainty, for it can bend and twist either way so that we may ‘feel’ it is guiding us to something meaningful; but it does not always! Sometimes we hit a barrier, then in which case incessant believers may argue it was not our beloved sixth sense that initiated such an outcome. If the result were desirable, however, then indeed it was our sixth sense. So either way, the notion of the sixth sense is protected, but our identity, being and soul is ever at stake… how ludicrous, is it not, that we become the scapegoats of an arbitrary construct of our own making?

In our struggle to grapple with life, to get a foothold to make sense of our all-consuming reality, we need to give way to the Universe. Its omnipresent force will overpower us anyway, so we need to sway with its push-pull dynamics. We need to learn when to let go.

Letting go in the journey to discovery

Every time we say, ‘Let there be!’ in any form, something happens. ~ Stella Terrill Mann

There is a certain magic in the abandoned, unplanned and serendipitous moment. It is almost as though the movements of the world, in all their monotonous rigour, come to a standstill and time is halted in favour of an unanticipated event. Many would call this moment in time an ‘epiphany’, an unprecedented and sudden realisation of an instinctive or intellectual finding that allows one to experience wonderment, enjoyment even, at having transcended into an alternative reality. Perhaps this is the very essence of creativity, or at least, the product that arises from a creative act or thought. Stella Mann alludes to this through the notion of ‘letting go’, suggesting that newness is created when we fail to plan, and in the process, discard the emotional worry, fear and anxiety that often stems from lack of adherence to a plan. This is not to say, however, that the imagination is devoid of ambition or goal-setting to some degree in the pursuit of creative discovery; in fact, conscious thought eclipses our longing for creativity, such that our subconscious thoughts, dreams and behaviours manifest in a creative direction. The mind represents our yearning for originality, arguably then we are not fully letting go in the process of trying to discover something new. Even so, many discoveries have come to pass as a matter of consequence, when opportunity and time align, where no amount of forethought or emotional reckoning could have altered the series of events. In this instance, we have truly ‘let things be’.

Consider then that the act of letting go fulfills the meaning of ‘destiny’, where there is an inconceivable force propelling a series of events. Many Eastern cultures, in fact, have perpetuated the notion of a higher power, an omniscient all-controlling being, who has plotted fate well in advance of the present time. It is he only, then, who controls when and what things come to pass, and whom are affected, in the pursuit of newness, discovery and creativity. In this way, we would be advised to immerse ourselves in the present moment and remain detached emotionally and spiritually from the past and future, as no amount of pre-emptive thinking could possibly change the future. Resultingly, a moment of newness is forever occurring as every second, minute and hour passes when we dispense with the notion of finding creativity. Instead, discovery and newness, the essence of creativity is found in every moment.

If one were to remain in the present moment at all times, a more rational individual may argue that creativity may never transpire given that man is not given the freedom to think ahead in terms of what he would like to achieve. He is inhibited from ambition, and consequently, his imagination is no longer given free reign. Perhaps we can broaden this viewpoint to then propose that letting go in ‘any’ form may not guarantee creativity; rather, we ought to exercise this liberty. Murphy’s law does stipulate, in fact, that luck is not a matter of chance, rather that the luck involved with discovery is a matter of persistence. Consider Archimedes who discovered fluid dynamics, or Captain Cook who founded Terra Nullius: many notable individuals in our history were truly passionate about and immersed in their art, succeeding after many attempts and years of contemplation. These individuals did not simply ‘let things be’ in the expectation that creativity would befall them.

Irrespective of this, the very meaning or the epistemology of the word ‘creativity’ inspires a sense of abstractness, or randomness in sequence. Perhaps this is the notion of ‘letting go’ that Stella Mann is implying, not the notion of dispensing thoughts in totality, but rather, relaxing our hold on them, allowing them to reorganise in our subconscious mind. By letting things be in this way, we are losing control to an extent, which may arguably be the cornerstone of creativity. By doing so in ‘any’ form, additionally, we may permit ourselves this loss in control on an intellectual, emotional or even physical level, where we still long for creativity and newness, however, our conscious awareness of this is less heightened. Instead, we succumb to an altered state of consciousness in our pursuit of originality. In the process we opt to ‘take the path less traveled by’ in the words of the poet Robert Frost, and perhaps this is what makes all the difference.

Why shouldn’t I dwell on my dreams?

‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live’.

It is a warm spring day outside as I sit here, at my desk, contemplating the meaning of this quote conveyed by JK Rowling. Indeed it has swirled about in my thoughts for quite some time now, arguably as I try to garner some sort of phenomenal meaning from it. I am waiting for a realisation to hit me, suddenly, where the deep dark meaning from this quote becomes astonishingly clear. It is rather unseemly to me that I am not able to extract some degree of potency from this quote, as I consider myself quite able to grapple with literature. Yet, when it comes to interpreting this quote, I am hit with a road-block.

Is it perhaps because I subconsciously disagree with this quote at an intuitive level? I may indeed have a proclivity to dwell in my fantasy world and see nothing amiss with it, hence I refuse to accept this quote. Why shouldn’t I live in a fantasy world, I argue, considering my reality is listless, dull and unappealing? Isn’t there more harm in condemning oneself to boredom than to opening the mind to imagination? I remember coming across a psychological study that portended daydreams to be emotionally enriching and uplifting. Why should I surrender to a doomsday life when I can instead fill the seconds, minutes and hours with creativity inspired from my internal fantasy land?

The part of the quote that befuddles me is the ‘forgetting to live’ aspect. What on earth does this mean? It is not possible to simply forget that one is a living, breathing creature when they are inhaling oxygen all the time, when they have their tactile senses and proprioception constantly reminding them that there is a world around them. We are incessantly reminded that the clock is ticking, that people are moving around us, that people are going about their lives as we try and come to terms with our own. So there you have it — one simply cannot ‘forget’ that he is alive. And indeed I am taking this in the literal sense, it seems only logical I do so considering I took the initial half of the quote word-for-word.

Perhaps I am reminded of the importance of neglecting reality; this is true to some extent, however, how am I expected to save myself from a bitter reality if I am not given the freedom to run away from time to time? If I cannot inspire new meaning or purpose for myself by way of my creativity and imagination, if I am not able to break free of reality’s tyrannical chains and set goals for myself so that I am able to overcome a life of dissatisfaction, how am I expected to live in the first place? If I am not able to relax reality’s demonic hold on my person, my thoughts may become so ill, so disruptive, that I fear my life may end. I then may as well ‘forget to live’.

Conflicting advice

It is strange when one comes across different pieces of conflicting advice. How does one know what to trust and disregard? This is where a sage may intervene and tell me to trust my gut instinct, or make some other vague insinuation about how failure is the path to self discovery. But I just want the right answer, as sure as black or white; as certain as the Sun rising in the morning and setting at dusk. I don’t want someone to give me a cryptic Robert Frost analogy about ‘taking the road less traveled’, or how life’s experiences should point me in the correct direction should I be conflicted. I just want to know what I need to do to be happy.

The supposedly edifying message I came across when browsing social media platforms advised me to not give up, as miracles tend to happen at the very end. Naturally the aim of this message was to uplift morale, but I felt it was somewhat at odds with another piece of advice I had read moments before about a locked door not being ours to open. Does not the latter advice convey that we should not force our destiny: that what is destined to be ours will eventuate? Yet the person who refuses to give up and relentlessly pursues a goal or dream may be trying to force open a locked door. In this case, how does one know which piece of advice to follow? One who chooses to surrender his dream in anticipation of his destiny may not necessarily be in the wrong. At which point do we cease to pursue what will never be ours?

Teachers are precious

It is said that no-one enters our life as a matter of chance; rather, it is a matter of consequence, whereby they serve a purpose. Serendipity if you will. It was in one of my reflective moments that I realised fate had allowed me to collide with certain individuals in life — teachers, of the best kind — the encounter being opportunistic of sorts. The best kind of teachers are the ones who give you the confidence to believe in yourself, not through directly trying to instil or force this belief on you per se by a kind of dry insistence; instead, they give you the tools by which you begin to believe in yourself. The world then becomes one’s oyster per the common adage where myriad possibilities become actionable. You feel powerful, a creator of your own reality: independent.

The best teachers are harsh and honest in their critique, reluctant to give praise unless it is genuine. And when you finally receive their tick of approval, you are overcome with a feeling of euphoria because you know it is sincere, considering it is so frugally given. These teachers that we are ever so fortunate to meet in our lives help us to grow; and the best kind are a rarity so if you were ever lucky enough to come across such an individual with whom you connected, thank the heavens and stars above, for you have come face to face with a diamond.

Uncanny alikeness with family

We feel we are quite different from our parents and our brothers and sisters, but we are usually much more like them than we think.

Oogeroo Noonnucacal, a prominent literary figure, articulated ‘we are all one family, so why make wars?’ Similarly, our differences with others are only to the extent we choose to view them as differences. In terms of articulating our perceived differences in characteristics, desires or ambitions in comparison to family members, we consciously regress in our manner of thinking; that is, each explanation we seek to validate a difference is contingent on another, which in turn depends on yet another. The necessary truth of these differences, the fundamental axiom or tenet at the base of all these perceivable differences, however, ceases to exist in this regressive manner of thinking, as we end with qualifying each and every difference. Specifically, in attempting to identify differences with our relatives, we inadvertently highlight our similarities: for a contradiction to exist it necessitates the existence of its opposite. Indeed those in support of the Leibniz cosmological argument would support this claim. Critics who examine this viewpoint with more scrutiny, conversely, would suggest that objective conclusions can be drawn about the extent of difference, that differences and similarities are indeed polarisable. Nevertheless, this manner of thinking fails to acknowledge the intermediates, that similarities and differences are not necessarily dichotomous and that they do exist on a scale. As a result, qualifying the extent to which one differs from their family members acknowledges that similarities do exist.

In the process of attempting to justify why we would respond differently to certain situations in comparison to our family, we identify that our behaviour in a certain context does not deviate significantly from how our relatives would have responded. Our upbringing, specifically environmental factors, largely predisposes us to this behavioural response, a finding alluded to in Skinner’s theories on operant conditioning where positive or negative environmental reinforcers shape our behaviour. Assuming that members of a family have been raised in a similar environment, learned responses in behaviour are passed on through the generations by observation in response to these reinforcers, and accordingly, our behaviour is crafted by the feedback we receive. As the philosopher Rene Descartes suggests, ‘I think therefore I am – cognito ergo sum’, likewise, our actions and thought process modulate into one another in such a way that our learned behaviour is an impetus for ensuing goals or desires we may have, which may indeed mirror those of our family.

In spite of this, objective differences can be identified to exist between family members. Consider the taxonomic tree, which indicates the manner of disease progression across filial generations. Theories of independent assortment and hybrid crosses per genetic counselling aim to identify the probability that family members’ genotypes will be affected, which may have implications for their corresponding phenotype. Whether or not a disease is inherited in a newborn infant not yet affected by epigenetic influences is a matter of genetics, of science, where the objective validity is obtained through examination of the DNA. In this instance, an individual is perceived to differ from their family members who do not possess the disease, nor its characteristics. The matter of similarity does not arise between individuals in a family presenting with Down’s syndrome and not, or an individual presenting with sickle-cell anemia and not. This can be extended to suggest then, that genetics poses the limitations on the extent to which differences or similarities between family members may be identifiable.

Nevertheless, external influences may determine the amount of a state or condition that is expressed, such that the extent of difference becomes marginal. Consider the infanticide debate, whereby a severely incapacitated or disabled individual is given the right to life. He looks back on his suffering with a sense of gratefulness, the trials of life he has endured with a brave demeanour. The attitudes he encompasses in his meeting of conflict have arguably been conditioned in him by his family members, resourceful in his upbringing. The opportunities bestowed on him, the strength, faith and belief he has cultivated in himself to respond with social opprobrium to challenging situations, reflects the values he has been ingratiated with. In doing so, he responds with a kind of ‘newness’ to the complex situations arising in our modern world, where like the scholar, he permits himself the freedom to eclectically select and emulate manners of thought replete with consequent behavioural responses that shift the trajectory of his response in comparison to another. From such a perspective, man is bold enough to ingratiate himself with an intentionality to cultivate his own sense of identity that allows him to think he is ‘different’ from his family members; when in actuality, the crux of his responses have been influenced by his siblings, mother and father. Man essentially then represents a modification of existing ideals and beliefs: the similarities are identifiable and draw parallels with his past, honed by the legacies handed down amongst familial generations, if only he desires to look closely enough.

 

Crises are part of life

‘One ruminating clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right

I have been acquainted with the night.’

 

The words of the poet Robert Frost may be extended to imply that crises are part of life. A crisis situation may manifest in our lives as a temporary or prolonged diversion from our preferred trajectory. It is viewed as an unfavourable change in circumstances that we are propelled to adjust to, often relying more on our base instincts and emotional intelligence to cultivate a sense of adaptability to the changing conditions. As the anthropologist Charles Darwin would indicate, crises are testament to the ‘survival of the fittest’ from which we may infer that they may be averted if one’s perception towards the crisis is less parochial in scope; more open-minded. This relies not on the fragility of the human mind to inculcate itself with self-pity for plausibly undefeatable circumstances, but rather, an appreciation for the shared culture of suffering: a gratitude, even, that is inspired from the present untoward circumstances. Man is encouraged to consider that the crisis presents itself as a boon in disguise for recognition of current unsatisfactory progress, in the hopes that the present mode of conduct be modified for the sake of future improvement and advance in aspects limited to the crisis.

 

When it is recognised that the perception of crisis is subjective in origin, that it is indeed on a spectrum, one is able to discriminate between an individual and collective crisis. In doing so, one may recognise that the labelling of a crisis situation is arbitrary and largely dependent on the context, which again hinges on one’s individual and collective identity. In this way, a crisis situation appears to be encountered every day, although one’s identification of such a situation as a ‘crisis’ is a matter of perspective, which undergoes paradigm shifts with time. From a sociological lens, the self-concept evolves as a result of the political and historical identities one has accumulated over time. Segments of our society who inherit privileged positions of wealth, power and socioeconomic standing may perceive crisis situations which do not necessarily favour them as unfairly affecting them. In this way, one man’s perception of a crisis may involve his becoming redundant in his corporate work; however, more pressing circumstances for the common man may involve barred access to Maslow’s fundamental hierarchy of needs such as food and shelter. It is in this way that crises are inextricably linked within the bondages of life. Their conscious identification involves a matter of negation of repressed thought to use a Freudian analogy.

 

It is indeed this reliance on an awareness of a crisis situation that suggests it may not necessarily be a ‘part’ of life, and instead, manoeuvring our thoughts in that direction may be doing more harm. In this sense, impeachment of a supposedly trying situation would be the recommended course of action. Perhaps we should not be focusing our energies on the unproductive task of acknowledging what may not necessarily be a crisis should we choose not to label it so. It is a matter of the mind then, a product of that which we choose to entertain, that broaches the subject of intentionality and forethought in human reckoning. As freely thinking independent beings, we possess the intellect to opt to respond to change in circumstances as a way we see fit. This may involve maintaining a state of calm by electing not to see a ‘crisis’ as so, and instead, dispel it as a myth in favour of what should simply be recognised as a temporary impediment, a minor roadblock. We can manipulate and hone the power of language to direct our responses to a situation, euphemistically identifying the connotations of the change in circumstances as opposed to envisioning it with a kind of dread. In this manner, the crisis becomes a briefly unfavourable situation by which our fight-flight system is not activated, our adrenaline does not surge and therefore limit our actions. Instead, we opt for a more well balanced and structured approach to the problem by recognising that a crisis is only dooming if we choose to identify it as such, and in this way, it does not necessarily serve as a part and parcel of life.

 

Even so, the more rationally minded individuals amongst us may suggest that a certain degree of stress is necessary to inspire the best possible response in the given set of unfavourable circumstances; that which may be extolled by identifying and labelling the crisis for what it is: a damning situation. There is no point then, in repressing the urge to fixate on the impediment for the cautionary amongst us, for this seeks to hide something that should be faced. It is only through a conscious recognition of the crisis, that which may indeed be subjective, that one is able to identify solutions in the hopes that the situation can be learned from. In the same way that Nietzsche elaborated that the past becomes the present and that the present is the future, crises are eternal if one fails to adapt; for what should be a moment in history persists and remains ever-enduring in the space-time continuum. The crisis then transcends the matter of relativity, and instead, becomes a persisting boulder and life itself, as opposed to a part of life.

The unconventional working hour

There is something magical, special even, about working when the rest of the world is asleep.

It is peacefully quiet as I type this, the occasional creak of the roof, a strange groan of a pipe echoing intermittently in the bathroom, the rain pummelling against my window, the heater expelling puffs of air before drawing its last breath into nothingness, the persistent reliable tick-tock of my bedside alarm clock, the occasional cough from another room and shuffle of the blankets as the individual turns in their sleep. Time seems to stop in the late hours of the morning, earlier stresses seem unnecessary and transient: nothing purports to matter any more. I feel isolated in my own space-time continuum, not exactly unappeased by the solidarity of it all. A moment to call my own, one I do not need to share with the rest of the world. There is no relativity, no push-pull dynamic, Newton’s laws do not apply at this time when the rest of the world is asleep. This is my own reality, a rare moment of oblivion where ‘breath becomes air’ to employ the words of Paul Kalanthi. Things that would ordinarily be ascribed meaning as the day begins have no meaning for me at this point in time, and as opposed to baffling me, it brings a strangely pleasant comfort.

In the early hours of the morning, ensconced in bed, I am not expected to engage in social opprobrium or niceties. I may dismantle with the notion of culture for its sake. There is no need to pretend like I care about the accepted meanings and the consequences which may necessitate. I have been given the implicit permission to entertain ideas of my choosing, as I see fit. The pressure has been lifted, as has the veil of pretence. These early hours are my darkest, for I then see myself most clearly. I know who I am, where I am. It is like seeing my own reflection as a bystander, a third-person, an omniscient being; analysing what I see, and then knowing what I need to do going ahead.

There is much to gain then, much internal craftsmanship, from remaining awake well after dark.  This is the hour within which epiphanies strike. I am simply waiting for the minute hand to shift to 12.

What is hard work?

My brother occasionally remarks how hard he works. I am impassioned whenever I hear him mention the words ‘hard’ and ‘work’ coupled together. They lose their myriad individual meanings when they are used subsequent to each other. Used one after the other, their meaning becomes reduced to one finite distinct, indisputable and identifying character trait; one that makes my ears perk, my insides hum, my muscles melt. I feel like I’m on fire, not an altogether unpleasant one, slowly burning from the ferocity of my emotions: some borne of self-pity and compassion, others of uncertainty, insecurity and regret.

Dreams, their meaning

‘A heart without dreams is like a bird without feathers’ – Suzy Kassem. 

‘Dreams’ in the sense that Kassem outlines is euphemistic, it corroborates the good and invalidates the evil. There is an implication that the dream itself is for the greater good, and is essentially an imprint of our values, perceptions and interpretations that are communicated in an intangible sense. Perhaps the ‘dream’ is, then, highly personal, a reminder of the idiosyncratic nature of our personalities: a testament to our unique traits. It underscores the subliminal in a manner that is not always clear, such that our questioning of its meaning unravels further mysteries associated with our emotional and cognitive states. Asleep or awake, dreams manifest as an irrepressible desire that trumps rationality, even reality, emphasising the potency, however dormant, it has to direct our behaviour. Like the heart that is elemental in human emotion, the dream becomes necessary for human functioning.