so you thought you wanted me to write...

And now here I am. Bathed, strong drink in hand, clove by my side and the late night wind reminding me of the hour. ...so this is what it's like to be Solgaard.







In truth, I'm a little repulsed at the notion of trying to 'jot something down' electronically, but I've been promising something new on the old blogaroo for quite some time. Though, I'll say right now, given the context I've just illustrated, the opportunity for coherence is growing faint.

Let me just try to make sense of this mess. I tried about a week ago in a terrifying conversation involving honour students and a brilliant young woman. I didn't get my point across, they were gracious, but I'd still like to see if it's not something I could explore a little further. *

The question is this: how (but 'how' is an inadequate word, and I know too few [words] to really understand why it's inadequate.) How does sorrow realise what it accomplishes in those who experience it?

I know, ridiculous sounding question. This is the very dilemma: I can't ask the question, but I have an image of the answer. I'll try to explain. (For those of you inexperienced in rambling, now would be a good time to duck out.) Right, I'll try to explain.

It seems to me, that out of an experience of untainted joy there are obvious 'gains' obtained by the individual affected. Perhaps most simply summed up as learning more of themselves. This is likely philosophically or theologically (or any other discipline you can come up with) incorrect, but I find myself wanting to say that this individual is being enlightened by a further understanding of Truth. It's been my experience that this same consequence is also attained by furious enduring of sorrow or grief. But this is what kills me. How can circumstance of such polar identity result in the same end?

The joy piece is less vague to me. (I imagine this can't be generalized, and joy could be infuriating for some.) Likely because I see joy as administering illustration of the things which we love, and identity is stumbled upon almost by surprise. An experience of sorrow, however,** is met with pre-emptive hatred and resistance, and yet you're hurled into all this learning of yourself. Sorry, I'm a little far from getting to my point. The question still remains: how does grief realize any of this?

Well, my very under-thought, very unfinished answer begins with One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. (You'll have to forgive me because the reference is a bit of a stretch) In a conversation between two Russian concentration-camp prisoners in regards to prayer, more specifically prayer for freedom, the faithful baptist, Alyoshka, remarks: "You mustn't pray for that...What d'you want your freedom for? What faith you have will be choked in thorns. Rejoice that youa re in prison. Here you can think of your soul."

Maybe I can leave it at this. As simple as this. As joy might herald the energy of a morning, so sorrow might induce the curtain of night, drowning out all thorns of distruption. As your friend passes away you are welcomed to grieve, relieved of all responsibility, for a time, except to understand how it is you'll survive. Being the eternal optimist maybe I'd say that from the opposite direction even mourning could bring to light the things one loves. What other time is there, what other time do we allot ourselves, even historically speaking, opportunity to ponder not our responsibilities to others but our responsibility to introspect? Sorrow grants us this I suppose.

yea I don't know. it's pretty effing late.











*Oh man do i ever want to bail at this point.
**and i don't just mean people dying, I mean all sorts of things. Whatever it is that just renders people distressed, like homesickness or illness or losing at scrabble.