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.

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’.

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.

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.

A silent plead for help

I am lonely.

It was midnight. The festive season was just around the corner. My social media feed was full of Italian inspired cheesecakes and crafty last-minute deserts for Christmas hosts. Forbes was advertising the best go-to New Year’s resolutions for 2020. There was a tacit pressure to end 2019 on a joyful note and proceed onwards to 2020. Everyone seemed happy. To not be so would be to oppose the agenda – morally, socially. Who was I to obfuscate this utopia?

And yet, I could not quash the loneliness. Then the guilt, which spiralled into further loneliness, then dissatisfaction, then numbness, then self-inflicted punishment. A whole stocking-full of negative thought. It is thought, I suppose, that gives way to grievance. Without thought, everything would be merry.

So as I stood outside my kitchen pantry, eating all and sundry, stuffing my face in the early hours of the morning with cashews & chocolate spread, honey & oats, ears pricked ‘lest the rest of my family members come sneaking down the stairs to capture the kitchen hoard red-handed, I prayed to God. For without him, my will power and sense of direction was lost. I had no support from family or friends, I felt so alone. So I prayed to him that I would stop eating, stop thinking about food to regain some element of my self-control. To once again acquire the euphoria that comes with being light on one’s feet, clouds in the head, where the day swims past as though you are flying through your own private mental fog, like you are living in one realm whilst the rest of the world is floating in another. That feeling of being there, but apart, brings an indescribable mental bliss. You feel powerful, knowing that your mind is strong enough to subject your body to starvation. You want the fat to melt away like butter, an indelible mark of suffering. So you surrender your organs.

A sense of loss.

Only now do I comprehend the full meaning of the pain that comes from having lost what was once taken for granted. It hurts, both emotionally and on a sensory level.

New Year’s Resolution

After reading a few chapters from a mindfulness book by Dr Craig Hassed (yes, it seems to be the raging fashion amongst Westerners seeking enlightenment in an increasingly manic world), watching the movie “Peaceful Warrior” (highly recommend this, you take as much out of it as you put into absorbing it) and skimming the Bhagavad Gita (the writing in this short religious manuscript is masterful; who knew clarity could be so powerful?), I have come to the conclusion that there is only one thing we need for success in 2017. As you can see, my research is extensive and from all of two weeks’ reflection, I have surmised that the key to success is presence. Yes, that’s all. Presence.

Abandonment of a relationship

A strong woman will automatically stop trying if she feels unwanted. She won’t fix it or beg, she’ll just walk away.

When I read this quote inscribed in “The Idealist” one particular Monday morning, I felt it resonate within myself. It took away some of my bleary-eyed tiredness from the night before, and instantly, I was left to ponder its meaning. “She won’t fix it or beg, she’ll just walk away”. I knew I was walking away from a relationship that existed only in the artifices of my mind: that is not to say I have an imaginary friend. This person whom I have envisioned certain situations with is very much existent, however, we do not share the easy-going banter and chatter that I picture incredibly vividly in my mind. That is partially my doing, I admit. Like any other woman with insecurities, I am reluctant to expose my self and commit to someone whom I know has the power to hurt me — unknowingly, purposefully — the words themselves representing the dichotomy of my feelings.

Thus, I never quite perceived this reluctance to commit as something a ‘strong’ woman would do; rather, I assumed a woman of calibre and a high degree of self-respect would never ‘walk away’ from her problems. I am naturally inclined, nevertheless, to leave this relationship where it is at the moment: detached, devoid of any emotion, merely courteous and acquainted. One would think this would require no effort on my part, hence I should feel ingratiated, relieved. Yet, being a person who easily gives way to the direction in which the wind blows me, I am vulnerable to think that no attempt to mend a relationship on my part is unsustainable. There will be tension, anxiety and a deplorable sense of loss, perhaps only on my end, given this other person is unaware of the episodes of geniality I’ve conceived in mind for the both of us.

My intuition, my gut instinct, has not fluttered and lured me to dream that this other person, whom I think so readily about, desires my company as much I do his. Sometimes I think that I have no right to feel as deposed as a door mat, especially given there was no sign of concrete affection in the first place.Then I remember the hushed conversations, the coveted glances, and I wonder if it really was all drivel or did it mean something more?

I have always been the kind of person to put my foot forth to chase what I wanted, whether this be via some elaborate plan I have executed in my head, or whether the approach be more straightforward and direct. It is only with people that I cannot assume this position, since I lack the confidence and opprobrium with how I should conduct myself. People are delicate and complex, and consequently, there is no binary logic or algorithm to decode their condition. Mending relationships is not a game of strategy or logistics — it is a matter of the heart. When philosophers such as Aristotle purport that we ought to “think with the heart”,  I am at a loss, since my brain firmly draws a wedge and intrudes on the mental circulation which seeks so desperately to meander its way into my chest.

Feeling unwanted, as I do, I can shamefully say that I have given up. I have no proclivity to force a relationship, even if it is only one of friendship, since I will give too much and get too little. From this fear I derive a sense of equal parts detachment and longing. What would it really be like to connect with someone on a level that is unattainable by others?

It is clear as day that I do not know what I want, estranged in this inner feud between commitment and independence. I do know, however, that I will never impose where I am not wanted. When I do not feel a sense of being pursued, then I will abandon intimate ties and view the other as though he is foreign, as though we have only just met. I am not one to stare from afar and wish for something that is not in the cards. I will move on with my life and leave the other behind, since he did not want to be a part of my future. That is the kind of person I am, and sadly, it comes with its ramifications. But, it also comes with its boons.

Competing and Comparing

Over the years I’ve noticed myself becoming increasingly competitive, so preoccupied with my own thoughts to the point that other aspects of life become insignificant. It is akin to Purpose converging to only one ideal, where other factors become secondary, subliminal and unimportant. At times when there is a spare moment, when I stare into space and think, I compare my melancholy mood to the happiness and peace of those around me. I wonder how they remain so cheery, and then the cynic in me wonders if it is just a mask. The urge to be better than everyone else, I’ve noticed, is the only self-approval I allow. It is when I am surpassed by others that I question my self worth, or my reason for existing. This competitive personality is unhealthy — what has remained a repressed undercurrent, a figment of my imagination or an aspect of my subconscious, is now overtaking my being. In other words, it has been brought to the forefront of my mind, and thus, integrates into my every action.

When one is surrounded by a false aura of his superiority, he loses sight of life. His perception of success may be very different from others’, yet he continues to delude himself, insisting that there is only a single kind of success: status, wealth, job security, social class. He is embroiled in his own internal conflicts, allowing the equivalent of a demon to possess him. One is filled with evil thoughts; he loses his friends and family because he can no longer distinguish competitors from relationships built on love. Consequently, he becomes his own enemy and he starts to hate himself.

The urge to improve myself, to become the person I once was — optimistic, caring, soft — is becoming clearer. I long to quash my competitive and ambitious personality, to feel the acceptance which brings peace. I need to acknowledge my limits, reconcile my humanity, empathy and emotion. I am not a machine, and thus, I need not act like one.