reflectionshttp://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2011-01-14T23:02:41ZSquarespacehttp://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2010/4/5/fragments-two.htmlStillbook2010-04-06T00:04:40Z2010-04-06T00:04:40Z
To influence another, do not think of them. Think of yourself… your deepest self. Become a better version of yourself and you will become an example for others. Be a doer and not a talker. As the old saying goes… the truth is seen, not heard.

Happiness is like a cat. It finds you when you’re absorbed in something interesting and ignores you when you seek it.

Happiness is only a side effect of becoming who you were meant to become. Thomas Jefferson was wrong. We should not pursue happiness. We should turn inward, reflect, and discover our talents, then share them with the world. We should pursue a life of integrity and love. Happiness, contentment, and joy will find us when we have succeeded.

Immature happiness is a feeling caused by people and places. Mature happiness is a decision that comes from within. The child inside us feels happy and satisfied when we get what we want, but the adult understands that true happiness and lasting contentment are uncovered when we are grateful for what we have and when we appreciate the moment we are lucky enough to be a part of.

A strong person will face what is unpleasant and overcome it with perspective and optimism. A weak person is caught in their own ego and narrow mind. They are pessimists because they are blind.

Pessimists are the sophomores of the world. More clever than the naive freshmen, but unaware of their own delusion and lack of perspective. Optimism and wisdom illuminate each other.

Happy people are dependant on no one and no thing… they are happy because of who they are and how they see the world.

A job that engages you, love, and being loved is happiness.

Count your loved ones and you will know the exact number of ways you must learn to love. If you’ve never considered the personality of the person you claim to love, then you haven’t loved them well... you've only loved them for yourself.

When someone is loving you well, you will likely be unaware of it. Awareness requires perception and distance. Contentment is blind and lives in the moment. This is why people who say they are happy rarely are. They are only trying to convince themselves and the people who can tell that they are not.

Happiness doesn’t talk… it is.

Loving is sometimes holding and sometimes letting go. Without separation, there is no coming together. Seek to understand then to love.

Learning about someone is loving them. There is love where there is understanding.

Listening is the beginning of love, understanding is the middle, and acceptance is the end.

Needing reasons to love is like needing sandpaper to caress.

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2008/7/3/on-introspection.htmlStillbook2008-07-03T15:46:16Z2008-07-03T15:46:16Z
A few months ago, I was having coffee with a friend, and during our conversation, she commented that sometimes it seems like I talk about myself a lot.

At first I felt hurt and disappointed because she seemed to be suggesting that I am self-absorbed and uninterested in the lives of others. But then I realized.... wow, she doesn't really know me at all. Or maybe more to the point, she is simply unfamiliar with healthy self-examination.

Perhaps my friend isn't aware that some of the most creative and insightful thinkers throughout history have spent a great deal of time studying themselves. Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Montaigne, Jung, Maslow, Einstein, and Thoreau all believed that universal truths can be found in the deepest recesses of our personalities. If we don't uncover our own secrets and biases, we'll never uncover the secrets and biases of anyone or anything else. If we only consider what is on the surface of things, we'll miss out on the depth of the world.

Simply put, if we don't take the time to think about and understand ourselves, we will probably never truly understand anyone else. Without reflecting on deeper emotional and intellectual undercurrents, our perceptions will only scratch the surface of the world around us. We will filter out what we don't want to see and only see what makes us feel comfortable. Our perception of the world and our perception of even our friends will be clouded, undeveloped, and somewhat immature, which brings me to the point I would most like to make.

There is such a thing as healthy introspection, an inner search that fosters self-understanding. And, contrary to being a selfish search, it is a foundational study - a study that can, and usually does, positively impact the lives of others.

After all, when a person says... "Can you believe that real estate developers are going to clear-cut the nature preserve and build another strip mall?" Isn't she really saying... "Some short-sighted people are going to hurt our environment yet again, and I am getting angry about that. I hope you'll agree with me, and we can be frustrated together."

Or, when a person says... "My mom has cancer." Isn't he also saying... "I'm feeling down and worried and uncertain about my mom. I really love her, and I need to feel listened to and cared about because I'm afraid that I might lose the deep maternal love that I have never lived without."

Perhaps understanding this kind of conversational subtext is the specialty of an introspective person. And, perhaps this is why so many introspective people throughout the years have also tended to make such gifted artists, writers, and thinkers.

Sometimes I find it disappointing, though not surprising, that people with certain gifts are often misunderstood and under-appreciated by people without those same gifts. I wonder if my ability to read into the deeper meaning behind my friend's accusation has also helped me realize that there are currently limits to our closeness. When she said "you talk about yourself a lot," I learned that we were operating on different wavelengths, and as I've been sharing stories about my own life, she has failed to notice that I've been doing so with the hope that we might relate to each other and that she might benefit from that exchange in some small way.

Perhaps a certain social irony exists in the world. Perhaps the people who talk about other people most of the time are, on a deeper level, essentially thinking mostly about themselves. And the people who tend to speak in the first person are actually just trying to share their own stories in an effort to relate to the people around them.

Perhaps the ultimate gift of an introspective personality is the ability to speak of oneself with another person in mind. And, perhaps an indication of a personality living an unexamined life is the inability to recognize, understand, and appreciate that gift.

Imagine if Thoreau never wrote WALDEN or CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE.

When he wrote about living a simple and contemplative life in accordance with nature, was he being selfish? And when he wrote about living according to higher laws and principles, was he being a bad citizen? Was Thoreau, a person who walked alone through the woods and wrote in his private journal for hours each day, enriching his community? Or should he have given up his reading and writing, married, fathered children, attended church services, and worked at a soup kitchen during the holidays?

I hope the answers to these questions are obvious. And, I hope they might help us all reflect and consider how different personalities can be generous in different ways. Sometimes, and for some people, giving can be a truly subtle, almost invisible exercise.

In the case of Thoreau, I would argue that by following his calling and staying true to his nature, he gave much more to the world than he would have by conforming to the people surrounding him. By focusing on and developing his own, God-given talents, he was actually being the most unselfish person he could possibly be.

I believe that when we all turn inward and focus on our deepest self, we are also focusing on the deepest part of each other. And, when we focus on developing the superficial part of ourselves, we aren't really offering the world something lasting or substantial. We may make ourselves feel better temporarily. We may even impress others with our efforts. But, in the final analysis, we won't be making a significant lasting impact on our surroundings.

Thoreau, in his not-so-subtle literary way, made this same point when he wrote the following in the first chapter of WALDEN.

"There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. It is human, it is divine, carrion. If I knew for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for my life, as from that dry and parching wind of the African deserts called the simoom, which fills the mouth and nose and ears and eyes with dust till you are suffocated, for fear that I should get some of his good done to me — some of its virus mingled with my blood."

For Thoreau and for myself, it seems unfortunate that many well-meaning people forget how we all tend to derive inner strength and self-worth from feeling capable, strong, and even self-sufficient. Charity presumes that other people are essentially weak and in need of our help. While inspiration or the act of inspiring another person by our example shows them that they have the opportunity to help themselves. Similarly, it may be worth noting that most people don't generally listen to unsolicited advice or counsel. It is a much better strategy to help another person by simply waiting for them to ask and then by guiding and encouraging them to help themselves.

People who try to save others that have not yet asked to be saved are simply trying to make themselves feel better. They are also probably unaware that their own individual "heaven" may feel like a "hell" to someone else.

I believe we are all unique people with unique paths to discover in life. While we can encourage each other with love and respect, fundamentally, we must each save ourselves, and in doing so, we can accomplish wonderful things.

Our gifts, when fully explored and developed, can enrich our communities, inspire our loved ones, and perhaps even offer an example to the friends who have yet to fully understand us.


]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2007/5/26/fragments.htmlStillbook2007-05-26T18:02:03Z2007-05-26T18:02:03Z
Of my reading and studying and searching.... my writing represents 1% or less.

For every word I have written, I have read one hundred and thought one thousand.

I rarely know if what I have written is worthwhile, until I stop thinking.

Always leave something unknown. Part of beauty is imagined and needs darkness.

To know all is boring. Keep faith and trust in the shadows.

I wonder if woodpeckers get headaches.

Trailing back beneath the sun to another one.
Sounding big then far away,
Lost among the trees,
Maybe she's with me down there.

All seasons start earlier than they seem.
Late winter is the true beginning of spring.
Buds move within branches before they sprout.

The beginning of the search for satisfaction is a feeling of dissatisfaction.

Contentedness is not aware of itself. To live in the present, you must forget the past and future.

What you are most is what you will see most.

The poet sees poetry everywhere.
The artist sees beauty everywhere.
The musician hears music everywhere.
The philosopher sees wisdom everywhere.
The mystic sees god everywhere.
The businessman sees money everywhere.
The thief sees thieves everywhere.
The victim sees victims everywhere.

Some people will never be happy. They think that everything and everyone must be perfect, different from what they are.

For some, even the clouds in heaven will be the wrong color.

Imperfections are inevitable and beautiful.
Accept them with love and your world becomes heaven.
Complain about them, always wanting things to be your own way, and your world is hell.

There is always something that seems wrong, but it isn't really wrong.
Things only exist in their present form to test you.
What will you be? How will you think? How will you live?

Our thoughts create our actions and move our lives.
To act well is to believe.

The deepest beliefs are lived.

An authentic life is rarely seen, yet available to us every day.
How many of us notice the sun rise?

Who brings us closer to our best selves?
Do what you love, and you'll meet them.


]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2007/5/23/on-home.htmlStillbook2007-05-23T12:14:11Z2007-05-23T12:14:11Z
Almost eight years ago, I moved into the building that has since become my first true home. Originally constructed in 1893, designated as a historic landmark in 1979, and renovated for residential use in 1984, my home exists within an old mill, divided into 28 separate residential units.

My individual unit is small, but the first time I walked in the door, I knew it was where I wanted to live. The exposed brick walls, the huge wooden beams, and the unique character of the interior corridors and hallways all made a deep impression on me. At the time I couldn't really explain why or how, yet something about the building made me feel comfortable. The character of the structure seemed to match my own, awakening intangible feelings of belonging.

I think a big part of me has always been drawn to the past.

Perhaps many things that exude age, character, and hidden knowledge have tended to attract my attention over the years. When I was a little boy, my grandparents seemed to have a special appeal that my own parents, and other younger adults, seemed to lack. When I was older and went to college, I chose philosophy - the study of wisdom - as my primary area of study. And, when I attended graduate school in fine art just a few years ago, the work of the old masters tended to interest me more than the popular and more contemporary artists of the 20th Century. In fact, it still seems unfathomable to me that modern artists such as Pablo Picasso or Andy Warhol could ever be compared to the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci or Johannes Vermeer. Even including their names in the same sentence feels unnatural to me.

I believe that time is the ultimate filter and the final test of talent and character. Sometimes new experiences are exciting for only one reason - simply because they are new. And as time always seems to remind us, novelty can never endure a wider and more mature perspective. In my mind, there is nothing more mediocre and unimpressive than a passing popular trend. While in our youth, we've all been caught up in them at one time or another, but when we age and our understanding of life deepens, so many things become endlessly trivial - like tiny ripples on the surface of the ocean.

Perhaps the wisest fish are found in the deeper waters, swimming by themselves or in a small school, following the undercurrents and steering clear of the large crowds of shallow warm-water jumpers and splashers. Maybe the wisest people are like squids, capable of braving the colder darker waters where intuition and memory are the best guides.

Just as some plants are prettiest while blooming in the Spring, there are others that shine brightest and show their true colors in the Fall. The passage of time may feel like a loss to some and a gain to others. Maybe if we think more creatively about our lives, if we view ourselves within a wider context, we can see that the best lives are those that continue to develop. The best lives are in a constant state of becoming. If we can view our life as a beautiful process of personal development, an unfolding of our deepest nature, then perhaps we can see each other as fellow travelers on a long voyage toward home.

With each passing year and with each new wrinkle that appears around the corner of my eye, I think that I'm becoming more at peace with myself. Maybe time gives back more than it takes. The concept of home has so many meanings for all of us. My own home is both where I live and where I am going, and it feels both physical and spiritual.

I think love and acceptance are the true foundations of contentment and the true foundations of our desire to feel at home in the world. When we take the time to find ourselves each day, we can offer so much more to the people around us. It's only when we are content that we can see the world well and know how to help. Not only is an unexamined life not worth living, it is simply not very helpful to the people around us. Shallow love is ineffective; it's only the most measured and considered love that can reach into the depths and the hearts of our loved ones.

After we have learned to be at home within ourselves, we can begin to give to others. Our own contentment gives warmth to the people around us. The deepest truths always seem the most paradoxical.



]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2007/5/11/on-making-a-living.htmlStillbook2007-05-11T17:45:28Z2007-05-11T17:45:28Z
For the last few weeks, I've been pondering the best way to write about my working life. It's such a strange path that I've chosen to take, since I began paying my own bills over fifteen years ago. Although earning money and making a living is something we all must do, I think it is something that can be especially difficult for people who feel called, even pulled, toward a primarily creative existence.

It's so easy to lose our way when we forget our nature.

In WALDEN, Thoreau wrote that he went to the woods to confront the essentials of life; and, I think this is mostly true. But also, deep down, in a very practical way, I think he went to the woods because he wanted to have more time to write. He built his own cabin, cooked his own food, and eliminated as many expenses as he possibly could so that he could fulfill his calling. He was a born writer and philosopher with strong opinions. Rather than conforming to the world around him and softening his writing style to appeal to his contemporaries, he simply decided to be true to himself. You might say that writing, for Thoreau, was a spiritual exercise rooted in his own unique identity, an exercise he was unwilling to water down.

The more I learn about Thoreau, the more his life truly makes sense. Unlike Emerson, who was a charismatic, community-oriented public speaker, Thoreau was more introverted and tended to flounder socially. He was disillusioned with all inconsistencies - both personal and professional. And sadly, almost every attempt he made to marry his writing with his income failed. I think his thoughts often ran so deep that other, less spiritual, minds tended to be threatened by or lose interest in his writing.

It's unfortunate that making money seems to operate according to different, sometimes less genuine, rules. Being successful in business isn't always about being oneself; it's often more about fitting in. After all, the best business minds tend to focus their energies on their client's desires, and money is given in exchange for a service. Like politicians, businessmen and women seek to please. Business lunches are often more about image and flattery and less about serious discourse. And, even when the conversation is more serious in tone, it still may revolve around such superficial concerns.

"Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. Money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul," wrote Thoreau.

Sadly, it seems, that the more one values truth, the more one may become disillusioned in business. Our economy can ever so subtly put us in conflict with our higher selves. If we value honesty and truth above all else, the world so often seems soiled with deceit. We are bombarded with advertisements which try to convince us that we need so many things that we really don't. We are made to believe that we will be happier after buying a product which actually makes no difference to the health of our soul.

New clothes and cars can make us feel new only for a while; perhaps we only seek them when we are tired of ourselves. And, perhaps we are only tired of ourselves when we've stopped becomming who we are meant to become.

So, maybe as we live, we should be ever mindful of who we are and what we are called to do.

If I am a writer, to whom should I write? Should I write to people's souls? Or should I write to their egos? Should I write to please an editor or a publisher? Or should I write to please myself and other kindred spirits? And, when I'm working to make money, how should I make it?

Thoreau's solution to this last question was to simply be a "day-laborer." He worked just enough to pay his bills. And, he simplified his life as much as possible in order to pay the fewest.

Thus far, my approach has been a similar one, and although the simplicity of my life has never approached that of Thoreau's, I do have a similarly diverse resume' of employment. Among other things... I've worked as a waiter and a bartender. I've written an arts column for the local paper. I've worked briefly as a tutor and teacher. I've sold a few dozen pieces of artwork. I've been a textile printer and a book binder. I've cared for my friend's children. I've invested in and helped manage a small business. And, since I have sound organizational skills, I've also been known to help people clean and maintain their home. Perhaps those who have their thoughts in order keep their environment in order as well.

I think that my most recent and welcome realization is the knowledge that my personal worth has nothing to do with my financial worth. How much money I make has nothing to do with my ability to contribute to the world around me. Likewise, I've realized that the very people who may look down upon me or accuse me of being lazy are the very people it is healthiest for me to avoid. After all, someone who sees the world in such an obviously materialistic way has not yet learned how to look at themselves more deeply. Someone who builds himself up with externals must feel very empty inside.

It's funny how we can all see each other so differently, measuring each other in different ways. I often wonder how many people's values actually overlap. I also wonder why more people don't turn to spiritual concerns after they have satisfied their physical concerns. It seems strange to me that many people will continue making and spending money indefinately without asking themselves why, while I find it so much more enriching to slow down and appreciate the simple things in life. The color of the sky and clouds, the sound of the wind and trees, the touch of a loved one... none of these things cost money, and few of us appreciate them enough.

Maybe using our unique gifts and being true to ourselves are the most worthwhile achievements of all. And, maybe whether they are noticed by the people around us or not, our littlest, most hidden accomplishments actually become our crowning achievements.

Each day the sun rises and sets, and somewhere in between, I try to feel my way through. There always seems to be something small and beautiful to notice and appreciate, something patiently waiting to be discovered by determined yet gentle eyes.


]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2007/5/3/on-names.htmlStillbook2007-05-03T17:21:54Z2007-05-03T17:21:54Z
In 1837, at the age of twenty, after having just finished his schooling at Harvard, Thoreau moved back to his hometown of Concord, Massachusetts. With the encouragement of a new mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau began to keep a daily journal, and he began thinking of himself as a writer and poet. He did something else as well.

Just as he was about to begin a new chapter of his life, he decided to change the order of his two given names. Instead of David Henry, he decided to call himself Henry David.

Although it may seem like a small thing at first glance, I believe that a decision like this signifies something much deeper. A decision like this reaffirms that our names, and the language we use to describe ourselves, impact our perceptions in powerful ways. Perhaps our names, and the words that we feel define us most specifically, are more important than we realize. Or maybe we do realize it, and that's why we tend to change or amend our names at certain points in our lives. We shed one identity and grow into another. Maybe at certain crossroads, we wonder who we are and where we are going. We might even draw new conclusions about our unique purpose in life.

For whatever reason, lately, I've also been trying to dig a little deeper and uncover more clearly who I am. I've been wondering where to work, how to live, and who to spend time with. I've been examining my creative habits and mediums. In short, I've been wondering where I belong. I've also been wondering about where I came from, which has led me to do some research in order to find the meanings and origins of my own name.

So far, this is what I've learned.

My last name CREAN was originally spelled O Croidheagain. It originates from the Gaelic word "croidhe" - meaning "heart". Apparently, some of my very earliest ancestors held a family seat near Donegal, Ireland. It's also come to my attention that many CREANS have lived and continue to live in County Sligo in the northwest portion of Ireland.

The traditional Irish pronunciation of the name CREAN sounds like "crane".... similar to the Irish poet Yeats, who also lived in County Sligo. The English pronunciation of Crean sounds like "kreen". And, although both pronunciations are perfectly acceptable, my own family uses the traditional pronunciation. So, my last name is pronounced "crane".

My first given name is BRIAN and it also originates from Ireland. It is related to the old Celtic element "bre", meaning "hill" or "high". Other extended meanings of the name BRIAN are "noble" or "strong".

My second given name, or my middle name, is PATRICK. Although most people currently think of Patrick as an Irish name as well, it actually originates from ancient Rome, derived from Patricius, meaning "nobleman". In ancient Rome, citizens were considered either Patricians (noblemen) or Plebians (commoners). We only think of Patrick as an Irish name because a British missionary, named Sucat, changed his name to Patrick when he became a priest. After traveling throughout Ireland and converting the island to Christianity, he became known as St. Patrick.

When I was about 13 or 14 years old, as part of a Catholic ritual, I chose the name JOSEPH as my confirmation or spiritual name. Although I'm no longer Catholic, I suppose I still think of Joseph as one of my unofficial names. Derived from the Hebrew Yosef, it means "he will add." This meaning came about due to his life story. Apparently, Yosef was the favorite son of the biblical figure Jacob. However, Yosef's brothers became jealous and sold him into slavery - telling their father that he had died. After being enslaved in Egypt for many years, Yosef eventually rose to become a chief advisor to the Pharaoh. Eventually, the family was reconciled in Egypt, and the name Yosef came to stand for one who rises to power or aspires to great heights. The story of Yosef, in a way, is about faith and perseverance. Two things needed in order to rise above one's station in life.

Needless to say, I have been finding all of this very interesting. Although I would never be confident enough to define myself in such a way, I think it is wonderful to have a name which, literally translated, means:

"High, strong, noble, rising, heart".

It's also been wonderful to expand my research and learn some interesting things about Thoreau's name.

Obviously, the name THOREAU is French. Unfortunately, I haven't yet found a specific translation of its meaning, but I have learned that Thoreau's ancestors were from the Poitou-Charentes district of France. His grandparents immigrated to America in the 1700's. His father was French, and his mother was of Scottish decent.

The name DAVID is Hebrew and means "beloved". And, the name HENRY is derived from the German name "Heimiric" which means "home ruler".

It's truly astounding when you think about it. How incredibly fitting that the author of WALDEN, a book about building and living in a small cabin in the woods, would have a name that, literally translated, means "beloved home ruler".

Lately, my interest in names has spread from people to trees as well. While I've been walking through some of the trails near my home, I've been wondering about the different trees that I encounter while I walk. I've been noticing which trees are tall and which are short, and which trees bend more easily in the wind. I've been noticing and appreciating the beauty of their leaves and branches, and the different textures of their trunks. There are certain trees, near the waters edge, that I tend to photograph over and over.

As I've been looking so closely at these trees, I've also been thinking about doing some scientific research as well. I've been asking myself.... should I go to the library and start learning the official names of these trees? But, then something inside me says.... no, don't start down that path. The path of the scientist is a different path and doesn't really suit me. It's not the type of tree that I'm interested in. It's the individuality of specific trees that hold my attention.

If I start to learn the scientific names of the trees, I'm afraid I will start to look at them scientifically. My walks will become a series of classifications; they will not continue to be the explorations of beauty that I've come to appreciate so much.

"We are constantly invited to be who we are", wrote Thoreau.

I think I am fundamentally drawn to the beauty of my surroundings. I am not a scientist with scientific eyes that names trees and people according to their genus. The trees I see while I walk may or may not be elms or pines. But, they are certainly unique gifts to be appreciated.

There is one particular tree that I often see on my walks. I don't know what kind of tree she is, but I've still named her SOPHIA. True to the Greek origin of her name, she is indeed wise, and when the sun shines through her leaves, she glows and makes the world seem perfect just as it is. Perhaps the eyes of a "high, noble, rising heart" are simply destined to see her in this light. Like all of the trees that surround her, she is more than just another birch or maple. I believe the beauty and essence of SOPHIA is timeless and beyond such generalizations, just like the writing, poetry, and personality of our "beloved home ruler" Henry David Thoreau.


]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2007/4/24/on-books.htmlStillbook2007-04-24T23:56:06Z2007-04-24T23:56:06Z
It perplexes me sometimes, how I can spend so many hours with my head looking down and my eyes burrowing into the pages of a book. They really are curious objects, when you think about it. Made from paper harvested from trees, pressed with ink, held together with glue and sometimes thread, it's amazing how books can impact our lives the way they do. And, there are so many different kinds of books capable of communicating so many different things.

When I was a boy, usually before bedtime, my mother used to read to me. From what I can remember, my favorite book was called "Go Dog Go." It's a classic children's book about all kinds of colorful dogs racing toward a big party inside a huge tree. When we are children, books, with their simple life affirming stories, activate our imaginations and fuel our curiosities so well. And when we share those feelings with a loved one, we come alive and feel connected to something bigger than ourselves.

As we grow older, however, our interest in books and reading seems to evolve. We read burdensome textbooks to educate ourselves in school, then we read fashionable magazines to stay popular among our peers. As adults, we may browse through serious newspapers to stay abreast of current events; and, if we can find the time, we might even read a "gripping" piece of popular fiction during an annual summer holiday.

I wonder if the very first bookmakers and bookbinders had any idea how influencial their invention would become? And, I wonder if they had any idea that the books they would so carefully print and bind would be replaced by a myriad of inexpensive publications that are picked up and thrown away at the drop of a hat.

During the last several years, I've worked for a Rare Book Conservation Center. Although I don't restore any of the historic volumes myself, I do work around them every day. I photograph them and carefully pack them in boxes and send them to far away universities. When I first started, I used to build custom cases and enclosures for books that were written and printed nearly 500 years ago. Many of these volumes are falling apart, but surprisingly, many of them are still in good condition. Some of the oldest volumes are often in the best condition, as they were usually made with the highest quality paper, ink, and vellum. To hold a book of this stature in your hands is truly a gift. Somehow, you can feel the love and care of the original bookbinder in the book itself.

Although I find the convenience of computers undeniable, I hope at least some books will continue to be made the old fashioned way. But, then again, perhaps this is simply not very realistic. Perhaps the best bindings should be reserved for the best writings. And, maybe there just aren't that many writings worth keeping around for 500 years. Perhaps the current publishing world is as it should be. Inexpensive paperbacks and electronic readers for quick, easy, temporal reading. No need to read substancial works the old-fashioned way, when there is money to be made and shopping to do.

Although I read a lot, I don't own that many books - probably under 200. Most of them are hardback editions, although I do own a few of the lesser, paperback variety. I think as I eventually generate some extra income, I'll update my collection a bit. I'll likely replace some of the cheaper volumes with better hardcover editions. I'm not sure how many new books I will continue to buy, however. Lately, I find it more valuable to re-read a classic a number of times, instead of forever expanding my collection.

I think certain things take a long time to appreciate. Like a close friend, a good book takes time to get to know. The more an author of such a book has in common with you, the more you feel at ease; and the more a part of yourself the book becomes. When you read a book that begins a new era of your life, a dormant part of your spirit wakes up.

Perhaps all good books foster a feeling of closeness and familiarity within their readers. The closer the book hits home, the more closely we hold it near. My literary friend Thoreau is someone who has walked a path that feels similar to my own. And, for this reason, my copy of Walden has become a book that will remain with me, either physically or spriritually, for a long time to come.

In the end, I am thankful for the books that have helped me to grow and evolve; and, not only will I continue to read them and handle them with care, I will also acknowledge them as important extensions of the person, and the writer, I am slowly trying to become.


]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2007/4/18/on-writing.htmlStillbook2007-04-18T18:06:54Z2007-04-18T18:06:54Z
After re-reading and reflecting on my last journal entry, I've realized that it is simply too difficult to compose a short essay "on reading" and not compose another essay "on writing." The two activities are connected to such a degree that they simply wouldn't exist without one another. Yet, in a very basic way, I think these two activities do have their distinctions.

Reading, which is akin to listening to someone talk, is a receptive intellectual process that primarily requires the reader to be open, or attentive, to the writer's message. Although good reading and good listening can be considered active processes, I would maintain that writing is active, or constructive, to a much greater degree. When a person writes, if gifted, he is essentially speaking in the most powerful way he can.

As Thoreau points out in the quotation above, writing has a lasting quality, and it tends to impact people in a more significant way than a speech or a conversation. A person who is giving a speech must consider the audience. If the audience is falling asleep, the orator must say something to wake them up, and if the audience is too agitated, the orator must say something to calm them down. Often orators are charasmatic and outgoing, and at times their personality and cadence can be even more important than the meaning of their words.

The art of writing, on the other hand, has a different focus. Perhaps it is more of a one-on-one exchange between the writer and the reader. Instead of speaking to a group of people who are all influenced by each other, the writer speaks directly to the individual when he is alone, at a time when he is not easily swayed by his peers. The very best writing may sound like it has actually been written for the specific person reading it. And, as Thoreau also suggests, writing of truly historic proportions will appeal primarily to a select few, since not everyone will be able to grasp the depth of the writer's message or appreciate the nuance of the writing itself.

I find the very best writing to be lyrical and rythmic, filled with hidden meanings and subtext. Varying sentence structures and syntax set the tone. The way the sentences follow each other, often flowing back and forth, like a gentle rocking chair, influence our receptivity. While a young or immature reader might focus almost entirely on the specific definitions of each word, a more mature reader might gravitate toward the subtext. And, a particularly astute reader might feel themselves reading faster or slower at different intervals, being led through a book almost as if it were a river. Some passages may be so wise or vivid that the reader feels like they need to pause and reflect on the power of a certain metaphor.

A gifted writer will have considered all of this. And, a gifted reader, no matter what generation, will be one of the select few capable of appreciating it.

All of this brings to mind the aphorism... "We have two ears and one mouth for a reason."

Shouldn't we listen twice as much as we speak? And when we listen, shouldn't we listen for everything? When we read, have we read the words and felt the tone? Can we comprehend the subtext? And, with regard to writing... can we exclaim something without using an exclamation point? Is it possible to more affectively assert ourselves by asking a question? Or by sounding hesitant or uncertain?

About seven years ago, I read Walden for the first time. I was in my early 30's and was at the beginning of my own personal and unstructured education. Since then, I've read Waldon twice more. I've read two different biographies of Thoreau (twice each), and I've recently finished reading "Letters to a Spiritual Seeker," which is a re-published group of letters that Thoreau wrote to his friend, and desciple, Harrison Blake.

In short, I've been reading a lot of Thoreau lately. And, I think I've been reading his work so much because he practiced what he preached. He walked the talk. He wrote with the hope that at least a few people would take the time to read his work carefully. Although many of his contemporaries didn't grasp the depth of his work, I think he knew, deep down, after being published, that other generations would.

It's obvious to me that Thoreau put his heart and soul into his writing. He carefully considered each of his phrases and sentences; and, this is why his words have stood the test of time. The words of Walden come alive and awaken the convictions in those who are ready to listen and understand them.

Writers like Thoreau often make me wonder.... is being prolific really that impressive? Should we measure the gift of the writer by the number of pages written? Or should we measure the writer by the number of inspired pages written?

"A written word is the choicest of relics," wrote Thoreau.

And, to that, I would like to add,

"The choicest relics are the most rare."

So, by the example of Mr. Thoreau, I will continue to write as carefully as I am able. I will read well and often, and like a plant that only blooms for a short time each year, I will hope that my writing, though infrequent, aspires to the greatest depths.




]]>http://www.stillbook.org/reflections/2007/4/13/on-reading.htmlStillbook2007-04-13T16:05:31Z2007-04-13T16:05:31Z
It is my feeling and my hope that the above quotation, written by Henry David Thoreau, applies to the last 10 years of my life. Although I've accomplished a few other, and lesser, things since 2000, I believe that my greatest accomplishment has been the number of classic books I've chosen to read.

It's actually a bit strange. While I was completing a graduate degree in Fine Art between 1997 and 1999, I found myself secretly reading Lao Tsu. And, after finishing my official university studies, I found myself reading almost obsessively - diving into the psychological writings of William James, Carl Jung, Abraham Maslow, Carl Rogers, Thomas Moore, and James Hillman; then on to the stoics Epictetus and Seneca; then to poets Rilke, Mallarme, and Gibran; human mythology so wonderfully explained by Joseph Campbell; and finally, on to essays by Emerson, Bacon, and Montaigne.

Montaigne particularly interested me, as can be seen in some of the other pages of stillbook. After spending about two years reading and re-reading his essays, I was always amazed by the intimacy and honesty of his writing. Reading Montaigne's work has been truly foundational, as I have since tried to write in a style completely my own. Or perhaps I should say.... as I've tried to forget my style of writing, so that I may express myself and my thoughts in the most personal, and therefore, the most unique way that I am able.

I suppose you could label me a chain reader - the writing and wisdom of one author always seems to lead me to another. Writers like Yutang and Emerson lead me to Montaigne, who, in turn, lead me to myself.

But, my interest in Montaigne predictably faded slowly, eventually reaching a conclusion back in 2004. Since then, though I've continued to read, I have felt a bit directionless, even lost, intellectually. Perhaps I needed a break, or some time in the darkness, in order to appreciate the next creative awakening.

So now, after a few winding intellectual and business experiments, I am returning to my writing and to the noble exercise I've come to love. Fueled by a growing number of walks through several parks and trails in my hometown, I have been rediscovering my creative energies. Photography and Thoreau have been my most welcome discoveries.

While Montaigne was my indoor cafe' campanion, Thoreau has become my outdoor hiking companion.

In the journal entries that follow, Thoreau will sometimes be quoted and mentioned by name. Other times, however, he will only be represented in spirit. His accute perceptions and uncanny insights into the nature of the world and into the nature of humanity will always be kept fresh in my mind. Considering the extent to which he was misunderstood and underappreciated during his own life, paying homage to his spirit in stillbook is something I feel happy, even honored, to do.

So, happy reading. I hope that in some small way this journal will be uplifting to whomever explores its pages.

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