Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
I’ve come to think of this post as one where you come for the music and stay for the conversation—so feel free to drop a note. The diarist gets to sleep in if she so desires and can show up long after the post is published. So you know, it's a feature, not a bug.
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Figs from Thistles
I woke this morning reminding myself that “before I die, I want to bathe in the Ganges.” And then proceeded to write and rewrite an essay attempting to explain my reading of Matthew 7:16 and that portion of the Sermon on the Mount that implores us to define ourselves in acts and words—to understand that our character can be judged on what we say and what we do. I don’t buy the standard interpretations (and don’t get me started detailing the theological arguments of whether “fruits” represents acts or words) for the simple reason that those exegeses leave out a consideration of motivation. A good 600 words later, I had written myself into a box canyon with no path out: trying to balance a personal tenet of living a life well examined with the realization that a dream~even one never realized~holds value and meaning.
So, I did that thing we all hate doing: I highlighted, hit delete, and started over with that one sentence: “Before I die, I want to bathe in the Ganges.” This statement—a long-term goal, really—is one that would strike most people as typical bucket list fodder. For me, though, it’s a need that clearly illustrates a personal tension between my attempt to live an examined life (conscious of the here and now) and my emotional abandonment of the present for the hope of a future occurrence. I’ve explored physical places that have meaning for no reason beyond the connections they create in my own mind~the emotions they drag from the depths of an errant youth or a misguided maturity or the stability and sanctuary they offer in rough seas. But what about ideas? Ideas that hold meaning and demand our attention for no reason other than the fact they keep you moving forward. Those that keep you sane in a world filled and defined by chaos and clutter?
Last week, in the midst of a convoluted and no-doubt trying recitation to my love about my day, I revealed a central philosophy of mine: don’t worry about what you want to do in the distant future, concentrate on what you need to do next. Small steps. No leaps of faith. No tinges of Either/Or. No worries beyond the immediate. Ours is a simple dedication to what holds meaning and importance to us in that moment. And while such a simple approach to living keeps us from the corner bar, it also blinds one to a peripheral world rich with expectation and opportunity: a wold that includes the potential for (and even the hope of) love.
My escape from that box canyon lay in this morning’s realization that love is central to what defines me as a person. Therein, of course, is the crux of the matter. Love—equal only to hate as the basest and most ephemeral of emotions we experience—makes ruins of a lifetime of philosophies; it destroys the sense of self; it topples dynasties; it teaches us humility; and, it forces us to reevaluate what we need to do for endless tomorrows. It provided that motivation I found lacking when trying to understand the measure of character.
There is wisdom in recognizing that what we do and what we say, in a real sense, define us in other people’s eyes. Why we do what we do, though, may be the truest measure of who we are. If a man steals a loaf of bread, he is a thief who has taken from the baker and will be judged accordingly. But if a man steals a loaf of bread to feed a starving child, a judgment of his acts perhaps hides his true character. Likewise, when it comes to love what matters is that we love, not what we do and say about love. I can write love letters, I can present roses and shower gifts; but the measure I should use is found in that peripheral world I mentioned. Truth lies somewhere in that tension between the here and now and a dream that may never be realized. It—that measure of love—can both define the moment and create a moral imperative that forces us to accommodate the past and the future into our present.
True love, as much as pure hate, defies the moment.
I’m looking around my patio this morning. There’s a chill in the air and my Christmas Cactus is in full bloom, but so are my bougainvillea and begonias. None would be there for my enjoyment had I not cultivated the earth, planted seeds, and tended my garden. Moments, surely. Small steps each in turn: eventually resulting in an emanation born of sweat and attention and expectation. Anyone who has planted a seed knows hope; anyone who has ever loved knows eternity. We will know them not from their fruit but from their taste. For that reason alone, my final thought this morning is the realization that revisions are necessary.
So before I die, I want to bathe in the Ganges. Next to her.
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Be well, be kind, and appreciate the love you have in your life.
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?