Currer Bell, British novelist

Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.

These things and deeds are diametrically opposed; they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them; they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them.

The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show pass for sterling worth—to let whitewashed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose—to rase the gilding, and show base metal under it—to penetrate the sepulcher, and reveal charnel relics; but, hate as it will, it is indebted to him."

Jug on the table

Не то, что мните вы, природа... ~ F. I. Tiutchev

Не то, что мните вы, природа:
Не слепок, не бездушный лик -
В ней есть душа, в ней есть свобода,
В ней есть любовь, в ней есть язык...
................
Вы зрите лист и цвет на древе:
Иль их садовник приклеил?
Иль зреет плод в родимом чреве
Игрою внешних, чуждых сил?..
................
Они не видят и не слышат,
Живут в сем мире, как впотьмах,
Для них и солнцы, знать, не дышат,
И жизни нет в морских волнах.
Лучи к ним в душу не сходили,
Весна в груди их не цвела,
При них леса не говорили,
И ночь в звездах нема была!
И языками неземными,
Волнуя реки и леса,
В ночи не совещалась с ними
В беседе дружеской гроза!
Не их вина: пойми, коль может,
Органа жизнь, глухонемой!
Души его, ах, не встревожит
И голос матери самой!

Nature is not as you imagine her:
She's not a mold, nor yet a soulless mask-
She is made up of soul and freedom
She is made up of love and speech . . .
................
Observe the leaves and flowers on a tree:
Was it some gardener glued them there?
And is a growing child in the womb
The work of alien, external forces? . . .
................
They do not see and do not hear
They live in this world as if in darkness,
For them, it seems, the stars don't breathe
And ocean waves are not alive.
The sun's rays have not reached their soul,
Spring's never bloomed within their breast,
The forest does not speak to them
And starry nights are always mute!
And, roiling woods and rivers
With unearthly speech,
No storm's engaged them in the night
In friendly conversation!
They're not to blame: how can the deaf
Perceive an organ's sound!
Alas, their souls can not be touched
Not even by a mother's voice!

Ch Ch Ch Ch Changes...

It did not come down like a bolt of lightning or the voice of God. No special sound or visual effects to announce the change. I woke up one day and discovered that I was responding to stimuli in a different manner. The change was barely noticeable, yet my different outlook shifted the paradigms of my world enough to make me feel altered.

I can sort of pinpoint the starting point. I first felt the shift when friends and acquaintances proved me wrong. I mean so wrong that it was embarrassing, so wrong that it made me realize how much I had been staring at my navel, unaware of my surroundings.

I think one of the reasons for the change is that I do not want to be the type of person who cannot see nor appreciate the empathy in others. Surely that would mean an impossibility to offer empathy in return. I'm trying so very hard to be good and act good... What's the point if I'm thinking that everybody's mean?

Another way for me to tell of "The Change" is that I have become more perspicacious. Well, maybe the fact that I am less self-centered matter-of-factly makes me more perceptive... In any case, I do love this new superhero gift. I do not need to be hit on the head so hard any more and that's a little bit of a blessing.

It probably sounds so wonderful and life-altering, but it's not so simple. First, those changes happen on very small incremental stages. I am not sure that others are aware of them, even though I constantly mention how I see things differently and how I feel different. This new reality is so big to me, yet I'm positive that it is still indiscernible to the rest of the world. I wanted to put down "to the average Joe" but I'm not sure it is such a big change. I think that what I'm witnessing is really the "beginning" of change and I'm probably excited by that prospect, but I should stop thinking that it's so darn special... yet.

What if this does not last? How many times have I underwent a new change/outlook/reality etc. only to be thwarted in success because that old sluggishness comes back home to roost? How many times will I go through it again?

The bottomline is that I feel like I am ready to move on to something better and more positive.

It feels like I'm offered a breather 

Senses and Pretenses

In the serenity of this place, I love to embrace the stillness in the air. The breeze rises up every now and then to remind me that this is all real; that I am not the only moving element in a perfect picture. There’s something here that affects you and makes you feel alive. Though I’m quite aware of my senses and I use them all on a regular basis, this is the only place where I use all of them at once. The moment I step into the woods, my nostrils flare, my eyes dart around, my ears pick up too many sounds for me to recognize and I cannot resist the various textures it offers. I do resist picking up mushrooms though… one never knows, does one?

Everything can remind you of something transformed into something else. The other day, I was sitting by the lake and was staring at a boat. I knew it was a boat, but the more I squinted my eyes, the less it resembled one. It ended up looking like a canoe with two chimneys. I was trying to see it, yet I transformed it into something else with my insistence. And my brain, not one to let illusion create a distraction for long, insisted “There’s a boat in here somewhere… squint harder… try harder.”

Again, focusing on something else I was staring at a small island covered in trees I could barely make out because of their lack of foliage. My first thought was that they looked like skeletons with their spare branches sticking out like bony arms reaching out to me. I thought, the woods can be peaceful, while retaining a gothic edge. It’s a place that can be a little mysterious and a bit creepy. I am never afraid of its dark side. I always embrace it. You can often find me there boldly wandering on the darkest nights with the brightest moon.

But on the day of this particular hike, the sun was up in a clear sky. All I wanted was to concentrate and try to embrace all that surrounded me. When the loon let out it’s cry, to me it sounded like the plaintive sound a flute can make when handled by a melancholic player. The concerto rising in the air from the beaks of unidentified fowl was also tender and poignant. When I closed my eyes while sitting next to the water, I could smell the marshes slightly pungent aroma. The sand too had a smell. Can rock smell? There was a hint of clay to it. I know because I’ve been working on a sculpture for about three months now, and it sometimes feels like the smell is now part of me! The breeze inhaling and exhaling around me also brought in some interesting smell. There was a mix of mustiness and muskiness in the air… As if it was bringing to me the smell of nests and animals that lived near by. It reminded me of the true inhabitants of this beautiful place. You might not see us, the wind beckoned, but we live here and some of us are here… watching you…

I turned my head towards the woods, and waited for the breeze to bring to me its smell as well. It brought me the tangy smell of “green”… how else to call the mix of foliage? But it also brought to life the sweet earthy smell of the soil and what covered it: moss, mushrooms, and rotting leaves.

It’s all there for us to experience. When I visit the woods, it offers me a reminder of what life does: it moves forward always and is forever changing, all the while appearing still.

CXXXVIII

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.