This I believe.........

[Orlion]

Hey, Beorn! Thanks for sharing that essay! As others have expressed, it definitely has the style you are aiming for. I also like the flow and the points made. The one criticism I have is that somehow the point on friendship between people of different races seems slightly out of place because much of the essay seems to focus mostly on differences between high school castes and not on differences of race. It's not a major problem, just slightly jarring upon the initial reading.

All in all, a great essay with a great message!

[aliantha]

Good stuff, Beorn. My only quibble (aside from using more first person POV, as others have said) is in the first sentence of the third paragraph where you used "significant" twice. If you could change one of them to another word, that sentence would flow better.

[Menolly]

Thanks all.

I'm unsure I'll talk Beorn in to returning to this account to express his thanks, but he does appreciate all of y'all's input. He has already implemeted ali's suggestion, changing the second "significant" to "distinct." He's struggling with switching it all over to first person; I have a gut feeling that's not going to happen.

He sees Orlion's point about the racism comments, but wants to leave it in there and feels he can't expand on the idea with the word limit. But he is thinking on how to edit it to his best advantage and will continue to do so until he has to print it to turn in Friday.

I knew y'all were the ones to ask.
My sincere thanks as well.

[Savor Dam]

One is happy to be of service.

[aliantha]

What SD said. Always happy to help.

[lorin]

The best part is there is finally some activity in this thread!

[Savor Dam]

Lorin, do not mistake the historic low level of commentary and interaction in this thread for a lack of interest. Consider the fact that while there are under 50 posts currently, mostly yours, there have been over 1,500 views.

You have provided many inspiring and thought-provoking essays here. I know some have been very cathartic for you; certainly there are many which have touched me -- but sometimes there really is not much one can say about them. This is similar to the situation that occurred with another series of reposted essays, 60 Day Journey, here in The Close during the High Holy Days last fall. Almost all of the 68 posts were Menolly's, but there were over 1,800 views of the thread. People are reading, even if they have not much to say.

A few months ago, you mentioned that you might try your hand at writing your own This I Believe essay. I look forward to it...and will try to come up with something to say about it when it appears.

Maybe Beorn has kicked off a new phase for this thread and we will start seeing Watchers giving us insightful essays into their personal beliefs. I am not sure I have the courage to do so yet, but will let the thought percolate...

[lorin]

Lorin, do not mistake the historic low level of commentary and interaction in this thread for a lack of interest. Consider the fact that while there are under 50 posts currently, mostly yours, there have been over 1,500 views.

You have provided many inspiring and thought-provoking essays here. I know some have been very cathartic for you; certainly there are many which have touched me -- but sometimes there really is not much one can say about them. This is similar to the situation that occurred with another series of reposted essays, 60 Day Journey, here in The Close during the High Holy Days last fall. Almost all of the 68 posts were Menolly's, but there were over 1,800 views of the thread. People are reading, even if they have not much to say.

A few months ago, you mentioned that you might try your hand at writing your own This I Believe essay. I look forward to it...and will try to come up with something to say about it when it appears.

Maybe Beorn has kicked off a new phase for this thread and we will start seeing Watchers giving us insightful essays into their personal beliefs. I am not sure I have the courage to do so yet, but will let the thought percolate...

Well SD, as usual, you inspire me to try again. In the mean time, in honor of Beorn I am posting an essay from a 17 year old. There is an entire section on the site just written by children and teens. Some of the best essays can be found there - 25,928 of them! thisibelieve.org/essays/age/under18/


Finding the Flexibility to Survive
Brighton Earley - Berkeley, California
June 2nd, 2008

Every Friday night the cashier at the Chevron gas station food mart on Eagle Rock Boulevard and Avenue 40 offers us a discount on all the leftover apples and bananas. To ensure the best selection possible, my mother and I pile into our 20-year-old car and pull up to the food mart at 5 p.m. on the dot, ready to get our share of slightly overripe fruits.

Before the times of the Chevron food mart, there were the times of the calculator. My mother would carefully prop it up in the cart’s child seat and frown as she entered each price. Since the first days of the calculator’s appearance, the worry lines in my mother’s face have only grown deeper. Today, they are a permanent fixture.

Chevron shopping started like this: One day my mother suddenly realized that she had maxed out almost every credit card, and we needed groceries for the week. The only credit card she hadn’t maxed out was the Chevron card and the station on Eagle Rock Boulevard has a pretty big mart attached to it.

Since our first visit there, I’ve learned to believe in flexibility. In my life, it has become necessary to bend the idea of grocery shopping. My mother and I can no longer shop at real grocery stores, but we still get the necessities.

Grocery shopping at Chevron has its drawbacks. The worst is when we have so many items that it takes the checker what seems like hours to ring up everything. A line of anxious customers forms behind us. It’s that line that hurts the most — the way they look at us. My mother never notices — or maybe she pretends not to.

I never need to be asked to help the checker bag all the items. No one wants to get out of there faster than I do. I’m embarrassed to shop there, and I’m deathly afraid of running into someone I know. I once expressed my fear of being seen shopping at Chevron to my mother and her eyes shone with disappointment. I know that I hurt her feelings when I try to evade our weekly shopping trips.

And that is why I hold on to the idea of flexibility so tightly. I believe that being flexible keeps me going — keeps me from being ashamed of the way my family is different from other families. Whenever I feel the heat rise to my face, I remind myself that grocery shopping at a gas station is just a twist on the normal kind of grocery shopping. I remind myself that we won’t always have to shop at Chevron — that just because at this point in my life I am struggling does not mean that I will always struggle. My belief in flexibility helps me get through the difficult times because I know that no matter what happens, my mother and I will always figure out a way to survive.

[lorin]

How Do You Believe In A Mystery
Loudon Wainwright III - Los Angeles, California
June 19, 2006

Here’s a question: How do you believe in a mystery, in something you don’t understand and can’t prove? When we’re children we’re encouraged to believe in some mysterious things that turn out to not necessarily be true at all — things like the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or the flag. Naturally, we’re disappointed after our illusions have been shattered, but usually we get over it. Some of us, however, become skeptical, even cynical, after that.

I’ve been asked on many occasions how I write my songs. Often I’ll glibly reply, “I sure don’t wake up in the morning and sharpen pencils.” Then I’ll admit how lazy and lucky I am, and how successful and downright great some of the more notorious pencil sharpeners have been — two of my heroes, Frank Loesser and Irving Berlin, being among them.

If I’m feeling expansive I’ll bring up the mysterious aspect, the mere 5 to 10 percent that matters the most — what’s commonly called “the inspiration.” That’s the thing beyond the technique and the discipline, when the sharpening and the gnawing stop, and something, as they say, “comes to you.” It’s a bit like fishing, really. There’s certainly luck involved, but maybe what you took for laziness was (and I’m going out on a limb here) a sort of divine relaxation.

When I write what I consider to be a good song, when I realize it’s going to hang together, when I somehow manage to get it into the boat, so to speak, I invariably find myself looking upwards and thanking something or even, dare I say it, Someone. If I’m alone, my heartfelt thank you is often an audible one. Oh, yes, I’ve been known to mutter a few words at the head of the table at Thanksgiving dinner, or hoarsely whisper an “amen” at a wedding, funeral, or Christmas pageant, but usually it is just embarrassed lip service. As a rule I don’t give thanks at a dinner table or in a church pew. For me, it happens when I’ve been hunched over a guitar for a few hours.

I believe in the power of inspiration, in the mysterious gift of creation — creation with a small “c,” that is — creation as in one’s work, hauling in the day’s catch. When I write a song, I’m happy for a few days and it’s not just because I’ve been reassured that I still have a job, though that’s certainly part of it. Mostly I’m happy, I think, because I’ve experienced a real mystery. I haven’t the slightest idea how it happened or where or from whom or what it came. I’d prefer not to know. In fact, I’d prefer not to talk about it anymore. It might scare the fish away.

[lorin]

God Is God Because He Remembers
Elie Wiesel - New York, New York
April 7, 2008
As a teenager, Elie Wiesel was imprisoned in Nazi concentration camps for 11 months. He has written more than 50 books, and won the 1986 Nobel Peace Prize for his work to advance human rights and peace around the world. Wiesel lives in New York City.

I remember, May 1944: I was 15-and-a-half, and I was thrown into a haunted universe where the story of the human adventure seemed to swing irrevocably between horror and malediction. I remember, I remember because I was there with my father. I was still living with him there. We worked together. We returned to the camp together. We stayed in the same block. We slept in the same box. We shared bread and soup. Never were we so close to one another.

We talked a lot to each other, especially in the evenings, but never of death. I believed — I hoped — that I would not survive him, not even for one day. Without saying it to him, I thought I was the last of our line. With him, our past would die; with me, our future.

The moment the war ended, I believed — we all did — that anyone who survived death must bear witness. Some of us even believed that they survived in order to become witnesses. But then I knew deep down that it would be impossible to communicate the entire story. Nobody can. I personally decided to wait, to see during ten years if I would be capable to find the proper words, the proper pace, the proper melody, or maybe even the proper silence to describe the ineffable.

For in my tradition, as a Jew, I believe that whatever we receive we must share. When we endure an experience, the experience cannot stay with me alone. It must be opened, it must become an offering, it must be deepened and given and shared. And of course I am afraid that memories suppressed could come back with a fury, which is dangerous to all human beings, not only to those who directly were participants but to people everywhere, to the world, for everyone. So, therefore, those memories that are discarded, shamed, somehow they may come back in different ways, disguised, perhaps seeking another outlet.

Granted, our task is to inform. But information must be transformed into knowledge, knowledge into sensitivity, and sensitivity into commitment.

How can we therefore speak, unless we believe that our words have meaning, that our words will help others to prevent my past from becoming another person’s — another people’s — future. Yes, our stories are essential — essential to memory. I believe that the witnesses, especially the survivors, have the most important role. They can simply say, in the words of the prophet, “I was there.”

What is a witness if not someone who has a tale to tell and lives only with one haunting desire: to tell it. Without memory, there is no culture. Without memory, there would be no civilization, no society, no future.

After all, God is God because he remembers.

[lorin]

this is so beautifully written

The Untamed Habitat of Language
Lina - Forest Park, Illinois
Entered on June 27, 2005


I write poetry. I am not a poet. I am an “evaporating language photographer”.

I use this moniker instead of declaring into the void, “I am a poet.” I believe in human fragility, our evaporation. I also believe in language — that it can be represented, photographed, in its untamed habitat. But if language is my spirituality, poetry is still not my church. It cannot be organized or compartmentalized.

I am an advertising copywriter by day. Commercialism and truth running parallel, never intersecting. I “encourage” others to consume in a controlled, manipulated, safe, and tame jabberwocky; all while I continue to accept the direction true language takes me otherwise. Poetry and ad copywriting are not even dichotomous. They share no common thread to create any counter-balance. One tries to force others to believe, and the other is simply belief itself.

I believe in nothing, really, because I believe in everything. I am forced daily to see things one cannot believe. I must believe them because others cannot. I must believe in tragedy, confusion, isolation. I must believe in wonder and joy. I must believe there is still movement, a stirring within the universe, a single breath of celestial salve to evaporate pain.

I believe in positive energy. I believe in memories. I believe we can still touch one another. I must believe your eyes when you see me upon the train and we exchange a knowing glance of humility. I must believe a child’s cry, I must believe my identity, your identity. I believe in madness, abandon. I believe that devastation and loneliness destroys you. Destroys a country. I believe these things happen. I believe because I cannot believe them with my heart.

I believe in a universal spirit of love, but I also believe in its destruction. I believe in everyone. I believe that they can believe me when I tell them that I must continue to believe, even when they cannot. I press on to believe in something, because I can imagine the depths of believing in nothing.

[aliantha]

I love this line:

Commercialism and truth running parallel, never intersecting.

And how sad an existence for a wordsmith, to have to write falsehoods as truth to earn her daily bread. No wonder she can believe in nothing.

[lorin]

Dogs are better than video games
Cathy - Richmond, Indiana
Entered on July 12, 2009

This I believe, I believe that my dog was a better purchase than a Wii for Christmas.

I believe that my dog, Fu Man Chu, is the best replacement for Wii yoga, gaming on the Internet, or dvr of the latest reality show. As we walk in the early morning hours, I meditate on the rising sun and as we walk in the evening I praise the gifts the day has brought. He doesn’t need batteries. His affection back is not the result of clever programming. He forces me outside of my artificial world of Facebook and Twitter as we explore.

I believe that I needed to turn off the computers, put down the game controller, shut off the television, leave my Blackberry at home and walk my dog. The benefits are many. Walking Fu Man Chu provides me excellent eye/hand coordination as I maneuver over the landscape avoiding potential pitfalls like large puddles, sticky gum left on the sidewalk, or other dogs not as friendly as my Fu Man. My lungs breathe the outdoor air unduplicated on any Wii game I could play. My heart beats as walk up hills, through tall grass, and down gravel paths, tuning my senses to coordinate with my feet.

When my work days are busy and hectic, and I just want to sit on the couch at home to “relax”, Fu Man Chu won’t let me. He is my fitness conscious. I look into his begging eyes and see his tail wag as he beckons me outdoors, and I know that I cannot stay on the couch. I turn the television off early at night and sleep well as I know Fu Man will expect his early morning hike. No alarm clock has ever been so effective. His communication of need can never be duplicated in the Avatars that dance through the virtual galaxy. His needs are my physical and mental saving grace.

I believe that unplugging and walking my dog has brought me better physical and mental health. I believe that my dog, Fu Man Chu, from the local Help Shelter was a better purchase for Christmas than a Wii. This is what I believe.

[lorin]

My Husband Will Call Me Tomorrow
Becky Herz - Sacramento, California
January 15, 2007


I believe that my husband will call me tomorrow.

Tonight I’ll say, “Have a great day,” and “I love you” to my husband, who is 11 time zones away in Iraq. Then I’ll hang up the phone. I’ll fall asleep as I did last night, next to our baby daughter. We’ll sleep in the guest bedroom downstairs — it’s less lonely to sleep there for now.

First, I’ll pet and talk to our dogs. I weaned them from sleeping with me a few months ago, but they still seem a bit disappointed when I go off to bed without them. I’ll promise them a long walk tomorrow, and I’ll make good.

In bed, I’ll lay my hand on our daughter’s chest several times before I fall asleep, just to make sure that she is breathing. I’ll curl up in two blankets: one from Guatemala, one from Peru. I’ll allow these souvenirs of past travels to warm the empty space in the bed. I’ll get up three times during the night to feed our baby. Each of those times I’ll tell her that she has a beautiful life to look forward to. I can say this because I believe that my husband will call me tomorrow.

In the morning after my cup of coffee, I’ll change diapers and move around loads of laundry. I’ll pour dog food, eat cereal, get dressed, and do the dishes — all with one hand, holding our baby in the other. I’ll do the shopping, pay the bills, and stop in at work to see how my employees are getting by. Every three hours I’ll stop what I’m doing to feed, change and play with our daughter. I’ll make good on the promised walk with our baby strapped to my chest and a dog-leash in each hand. When people say, “Looks like you have your hands full,” I’ll smile and acknowledge that it’s true, but I make the best of it because I believe that my husband will call me tomorrow.

If there is a letter addressed to me from the military, I’ll open it because I believe that my husband will call me tomorrow. If there is a knock at the door, I’ll answer it, because I believe that my husband will call me tomorrow.

And when he does, I’ll talk to him and tell him again that I love him. I’ll be able to hang up the phone, keeping my fear at bay, because I believe — I must believe — that my husband will call me tomorrow.

[lorin]

Suzanna's Gift
James - Richmond, Virginia
Entered on July 5, 2006

Suzanna’s Gift

Not long after I started working, I began to hate Mondays. Sometimes I hated Tuesdays, Wednesdays and even Thursdays. Mondays to Fridays were the days I got paid to do something that someone else wanted done. On Saturdays and Sundays I did work-type things at home without being paid. I did these things because I wanted them done. I loved Saturdays and Sundays.

As I slowly grew wiser I realized that the price of not enjoying five days out of every seven was too high. And then came Suzanna’s gift.

One day I had a telephone call: Suzanna had cancer and was nearing her end. I decided to make my final visit with her. I drove to the communal farm where she worked, entered the beautiful healing center, and was shown into a bedroom.

I could see that there was something under the blankets on the bed. Not much of a thing because the mattress did not sag and the blankets remained quite flat. Only when the eyes in the skull opened, did I realize that Suzanna was still somewhere inside the skeleton. Over the next hour or so we communicated. Or should I say, sort of communicated. She could barely speak and drifted in and out of consciousness, in and out of the skeleton. We shared long silences.

Finally, the skull opened its eyes and Suzanna smiled at me. “Look what they gave me,” she whispered with an effort. It took me awhile, and her a lot of energy, before I focused on what she wanted me to see. On the opposite wall was a gift voucher for a book, painted on a piece of plywood. It read “Thank you for starting the basket weaving factory.” Suzanna never got to use the gift voucher, she never read another book. But that piece of plywood was the real gift. It told the story of her life’s work. It told of the joy she brought to others who became gainfully employed.

Sitting there, I wondered if anyone would take the trouble to paint me a piece of plywood. What would they write? And then I understood that I must look beyond the skeleton of my work to find its meaning, just as I had to look beyond the skeleton on the bed to find Suzanna. Unless I did, then one day I would look back on my adult life and would have to admit that I stopped myself from enjoying 70% of my time. Finally, a belief-penny dropped: I create my life, not only through the choices I make, but also those I don’t make.

I still had time to influence what people would paint on my piece of plywood, but it took that visit with Suzanna to get me to change my approach to life. One change was a book I wrote about how nonsense stops us living a successful life. Now it seems as if, like Suzanna, I will one day smile at my piece of plywood.

[lorin]

New Possibilities And New Realities
Jonathan - Warwick, New York
Entered on April 5, 2005

As a painter who has faced blank canvases for more than 35 years, I have come to believe that whether or not we write, paint, draw, sculpt, dance, act, sing, or play music, we are all the artists of our own lives. Our blank canvases are the hours of our days, our paints are our thoughts and feelings, and our energy is our inspiration.

Sometimes we choose our own colors and sometimes circumstances choose our colors for us. Sometimes we use our artistry to serve those around us and sometimes we use it to preserve ourselves. Sometimes our efforts bring us fame and fortune and sometimes our creativity goes unrecognized except by those close to us, those we love and those who love us. And yes, sometimes we work in complete isolation. This is the way it is for artists.

Years ago, standing behind the great painter Norman Rockwell as he painted a picture of the general store in Menemsha, Massachusetts, a picture which appeared, not long afterwards, on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post magazine, I learned that being an artist involves the ability to create a private space for one’s self where one can focus intently and work at one’s own pace even when one is surrounded by others. This is a skill we can all use in today’s complex and sometimes overwhelming world.

Years ago, observing artist Alexander Calder, the inventor of the mobile, interact with a group of students, I learned that being an artist involves being engaged with one’s community and the individuals in it in a natural and unpretentious way. This, too, is a talent we can all use in today’s world, a world in which the modalities of our interactions with others are often defined by the media stream rather than by our own best instincts.

Years ago, watching my mother gaze longingly at the paintings she had done before she “gave up art” to raise a family, I learned that denying one’s creative impulses can lead to sadness and depression. This is also something useful to remember in times like these when the lessons of the past threaten to destroy our hopes for the future.

Being an artist is about imagining new possibilities and creating new realities. I believe that the nature of tomorrow’s reality, balanced as it is on the fulcrum of history, will depend on whether or not each of us responds artfully and creatively to the challenges we face today. I believe that the more we exercise our personal and social artistry, the more likely it is that we will enjoy a fully realized future.

[Cambo]

Lorin, this thread is amazing. Thanks for reviving it.

[rusmeister]

Years ago, watching my mother gaze longingly at the paintings she had done before she “gave up art” to raise a family, I learned that denying one’s creative impulses can lead to sadness and depression. This is also something useful to remember in times like these when the lessons of the past threaten to destroy our hopes for the future.

One thing that is obvious to me is that creating and raising a family is genuine creation, not merely an impulse. If we were to follow our impulses alone, they would lead us to wickedness and selfishness much more often than to good.

It just seems that a line is drawn here that suggests that raising a family is to smother creative desire, and I know for a fact that that is not true. It may mean not being able to also be a full-time professional artist, and that is merely the problem of the road not taken. The fifty-plus year-old artist living alone can look, with just as much wistfulness and depression, on a family passing by (remembering Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally" saying "I spy a family!" and ready to cry), as a mother might when she looks at the beautiful works of a genuinely good artist - which by no means all professional artists become. The difference is that I think most mothers will really not regret their choice when they look at their children, who are the results of creative impulse and are works of art that far surpass the Mona Lisa.

[lorin]

How Do You Believe In A Mystery
Loudon Wainwright III
June 19, 2006

Here’s a question: How do you believe in a mystery, in something you don’t understand and can’t prove? When we’re children we’re encouraged to believe in some mysterious things that turn out to not necessarily be true at all — things like the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or the flag. Naturally, we’re disappointed after our illusions have been shattered, but usually we get over it. Some of us, however, become skeptical, even cynical, after that.

I’ve been asked on many occasions how I write my songs. Often I’ll glibly reply, “I sure don’t wake up in the morning and sharpen pencils.” Then I’ll admit how lazy and lucky I am, and how successful and downright great some of the more notorious pencil sharpeners have been — two of my heroes, Frank Loesser and Irving Berlin, being among them.

If I’m feeling expansive I’ll bring up the mysterious aspect, the mere 5 to 10 percent that matters the most — what’s commonly called “the inspiration.” That’s the thing beyond the technique and the discipline, when the sharpening and the gnawing stop, and something, as they say, “comes to you.” It’s a bit like fishing, really. There’s certainly luck involved, but maybe what you took for laziness was (and I’m going out on a limb here) a sort of divine relaxation.

When I write what I consider to be a good song, when I realize it’s going to hang together, when I somehow manage to get it into the boat, so to speak, I invariably find myself looking upwards and thanking something or even, dare I say it, Someone. If I’m alone, my heartfelt thank you is often an audible one. Oh, yes, I’ve been known to mutter a few words at the head of the table at Thanksgiving dinner, or hoarsely whisper an “amen” at a wedding, funeral, or Christmas pageant, but usually it is just embarrassed lip service. As a rule I don’t give thanks at a dinner table or in a church pew. For me, it happens when I’ve been hunched over a guitar for a few hours.

I believe in the power of inspiration, in the mysterious gift of creation — creation with a small “c,” that is — creation as in one’s work, hauling in the day’s catch. When I write a song, I’m happy for a few days and it’s not just because I’ve been reassured that I still have a job, though that’s certainly part of it. Mostly I’m happy, I think, because I’ve experienced a real mystery. I haven’t the slightest idea how it happened or where or from whom or what it came. I’d prefer not to know. In fact, I’d prefer not to talk about it anymore. It might scare the fish away.

[lorin]

Years ago, watching my mother gaze longingly at the paintings she had done before she “gave up art” to raise a family, I learned that denying one’s creative impulses can lead to sadness and depression. This is also something useful to remember in times like these when the lessons of the past threaten to destroy our hopes for the future.

One thing that is obvious to me is that creating and raising a family is genuine creation, not merely an impulse. If we were to follow our impulses alone, they would lead us to wickedness and selfishness much more often than to good.

It just seems that a line is drawn here that suggests that raising a family is to smother creative desire, and I know for a fact that that is not true. It may mean not being able to also be a full-time professional artist, and that is merely the problem of the road not taken. The fifty-plus year-old artist living alone can look, with just as much wistfulness and depression, on a family passing by (remembering Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally" saying "I spy a family!" and ready to cry), as a mother might when she looks at the beautiful works of a genuinely good artist - which by no means all professional artists become. The difference is that I think most mothers will really not regret their choice when they look at their children, who are the results of creative impulse and are works of art that far surpass the Mona Lisa.

I agree, raising a family is an art in itself. But I also think that she puts it in 'quotes' for just the reason you state. It is not an either or situation. My mother was a great artist, but her art was not mothering. So for her it was an either or situation.