Alan Lightman, Einstein’s Dreams

I just got done watching the three part series Wormhole. I’ve concluded that God may or may not exist. Black holes are fascinating things, but I will only be able to understand them abstractly. Time travel will not be possible for a million bazillion years, if that. I think that God (or nature or whatever metaphysical force presents itself) has woven time in such a way that, like the Tower of Babel, people may never destroy or assume His power. Oh, and that time is relative and unique to each individual (which is extremely, albeit abstractly, encouraging). So my mind was blown, but I’m still standing in the same place. 

Actually, I’m pretty overwhelmed. Not so much by my small life, but at the very fact that I exist at all. That I’m a cognitive, self-aware, empathetic creature. 

It also made me a little nostalgic. We used to talk of God and science and believed the two are so very intertwined. I got God and he got science, and one of the first books we bonded over was Einstein’s Dreams. For some gift-giving season, I can’t remember the specific occasion, I gave him a black and brown leather watch that matched the book cover perfectly. The watch was dead, the small silver hands stopped within fifteen minutes of each other. It was to represent one of the essays in which young lovers move to the center of time, a place where time stopped, so that they would always be together. Be so feverishly wrapped up in that kiss. When I moved away, he wore it everywhere. He never bothered to tell me, to impress me. In fact, I think he was a little embarrassed to tell me how much he missed me, that it was emasculating. I found out about it when I saw pictures of him on facebook. The boy never had to prove his love. He just loved.

We should have seen it coming - the foreshadowing was evident. We were naive, and once we moved away from gazing at each other, we became bitter that we wasted time and hadn’t looked elsewhere. Angry words and angry months were exchanged. I stormed up to his house on a hot day in August, swapped his belongings for mine, and left with a new set of principles and rules for the next man. I haven’t seen him, the boy I loved, since. Physically, sure, but he’s a new person completely. The few times I’ve made eye contact my brain only comprehends a stranger’s face. 

This is only the readers digest version. A better, sadder, recount of my first love will be detailed later. But the whole point of bringing it up was that I am truly sad that I haven’t been able to talk about God and the universe with someone who gets it. Someone who reasons and logics and calculates - dreams and loves because of it, not in spite of it. —Don’t get me wrong, there’s no yearning to look back. Mostly, I’m thinking (in my best valley-turned-Cosmo-girl/Carrie Bradshaw attitude) “Really? I wasted my first love that young? We only get two great loves in life, and my first was when I was 17?!”  Because, for some unknown reason, I think the romance bank is only so full and I can make limited withdrawals. It’s strange. I’m sweet to these following men, but it feels less and less genuine the further I get from the original. 

And now I’m rambling. A sure sign I’m ready for bed. In any case, the book is beautiful, and I’m sure I will never understand time mathematically and reasonably, but from what I do understand, God and science will end up proving themselves and the truths from Lightman’s book will remain truths -regardless of our attempts to understand the highest force. 

A.J. Jacobs - The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible

I’ve been listening to this audiobook for a good part of this week. A good part of it is eye opening and its certainly relatable. A few sentences before I begin the quote mentioned above, Jacob states “and then it HIT me.”  His understanding of praising God hit me hard as well. I’m beginning to understand my hesitancy with Christianity. I want to be in control of my life, even if it’s just a little bit here and there… I’m okay with God giving me my purpose in life. I attempted to follow that since He burdened me with it since I was twelve, and when I’ve strayed, He finds a way to get me back to Him. That part of His divine hand guiding me has been evident. But little bits of control, no matter how small, I want to keep for myself. I’m like “Hey God, make me your tool. I want to be in your big picture for the world. I want to love you, and help others love you too. That okay with you?… Oh, no need for you to worry about where I’m spending my money. Or the rest of these silly decisions. I’ve got that under control. You go ahead and save the world and I’ll micromanage myself. Love ya!”

Could I be any more of dipshit? 

Another revelatory insight: this book has probably inspired me to read the Bible thoroughly, daily, lovingly,  probably more than any religious authority or encouragement I’ve ever encountered… all of them, put together. Which either says something for the mundane, yet oversaturated Christian culture I’ve encountered, or something about my hesitancy. Has this devoutness just passed in one ear and out of the other? Am I a lukewarm Christian?

Yet another insight: God uses every single facet to get to us. Yep, I’d probably pass on the opportunity to read, to study, the Bible if my pastor(s) had urged me to do it, my parents or my friends. But listening in on the insights of a secular intellectual well-knowledged in culture and human tendencies? Well, that’s right up my alley. And hey, the Bible sounds kind of fun now! 

And to answer my own question, yes. I am certainly a dipshit. 

I have a book called “life in lists.” Its kind of useless - a theme journal with a suggestion of a list given at the top of every other page. I say it’s useless because it was $15- most journals cost the time to get to a scrap piece of paper, and the “other page” was an illustration of the list on the next page. Also, I bought it when I was 18 and didn’t have much to “list.” I blame a good portion of this on inexperience. (“List your past lovers” - does the middle school boyfriend count? because if he doesn’t, then I’ve only got two high school “lovers” and they’re really not worth it to defile a page.) The other portion, the parts where the journal asks to list my favorite songs and books and artists and movies, well, I still didn’t have the “right” answers to. (Honestly, how much longer can I get a cheap laugh from stating that my favorite movie is Dumb and Dumber?)

In my defense, I consider myself cultured, at least for my age. I’m well-read for 20, devouring classics, soon-to-be-considered-classics, and journalism disguised as a novel. I have a range of taste in music, not hipster for hipster sake, though I’m glad its considered cool by intellectuals (and pseudo-intellectuals) to listen to music that MTV (wait, do they even do music anymore?) considers not-cool-enough. My favorite musicians are those who love the music just because its beautiful and they want to put life as they know it in a lyrical message. I shun pop and country, because, geez, your high school sweetheart that becomes your wife and baby’s mama doesn’t always die young in a tragic tractor accident in your arms with enough strength to utter the chorus from “your song”- predictably, Taylor Swifts Love Story, and most women don’t want to be your ho, no matter how expensive the drank (not a typo) you hope to swoon her with is.

I’ve made a bit of my case. I’m halfway credible when it comes to meaningful culture. Still though, I don’t believe I have a lot to list. My “favorites” are still kind of half-assed. My fiance made a point after we watched “Away We Go.” While this movie is infinitely more endearing than Dumb and Dumber, he stated that the gist of the movies “getting more in touch with reality” are merely more intelligent dialogue and wittier humor, and the silences……………………………………..well, they’re more awkward. Essentially, they all have the same messages. This translates in other arts of my life. The music is great, but the musicians development… well, it doesn’t hit the mark. The books are fantastic, but their messages… well, they don’t inspire me to do, to be, to love.

But I know I’ve got some favorites. I know that when I’m afraid and I don’t know what I’m afraid of (what Holly Golightly defines as the Mean Reds) I pop in Breakfast At Tiffany’s, stir up a cup of chamomile tea, and I’m asleep before she describes her relationship with Sally Tomato then drearily wake up right as Fred Baby fights to love her in spite of herself. I know that when I was 10 I scribbled in a random notebook that I want to find a song that I could completely identify with. And when I was 15 I bought a magazine that offered a free sampler CD, and lo and behold, Josh Ritter’s Girl in the War was the second song I listened to - its been my song, through and through. I know I’ve also read too many books to pick a favorite, but the best of them reveal that doubtis a merely a journey, and the final destination is worth every single step of pain and confusion. The destination, the endings, reveal a golden truth: we’re undeniably fatally flawed humans, and we are capable of great loves and great beauty and we have the spirit to endure. (And then there’s the ironic/cynical side of life to which I credit Jon Stewart, Dorothy Parker, Oscar Wilde…)

Still, this isn’t enough for me to list. I wanted to type out a list of my favorite authors, only to realize that I haven’t read enough of the authors works. I mean, I love East of Eden, but I hated the Grapes of Wrath. I love The Life of Pi, but the Helsinki essays, I can’t even remember the characters. On the Road is much different than the Dharma Bums, and Atlas Shrugged (if you can ignore the blatant manifesto) shows power of the individual in the face of adversity, but the Fountainhead’s characters are severely unbalanced. I haven’t read any more of Kingsolver than the Poisonwood Bible, Foer than Everything is Illuminated, and O’Brien than The Things They Carried. So I can’t even list my favorite authors, only my favorite books. But still, my favorite books are missing something. What? I don’t know. But the something is important. The something is that part of me that connects with… well, something. Something that roots me to the beauty and love I’m capable of, even if it points out I’m fatally flawed.

I’m itching to make lists. I’m want to gush over the most gorgeous prose I’ve ever read, to recommend a book that will change your life, to fall in love with a book that I can read over and over, to fall asleep to when I doubt. I want to carry it’s battered paperback with me in my car and purse for whenever I’m lonely and need a friend, or pass to a stranger in need of a friend. Hell, eventually I want to have it’s most meaningful quote etched into my tombstone. I’m disappointed that I haven’t yet met one of the greatest loves of my life.

But still, I’m searching, and I’m doubting. And I’m excited that right around the corner, I’m about to read my favorite book.

I want to spend a year dirt poor. Either work as a volunteer, or give away whatever monetary funds I don’t need. And needs are basic - water, food, minimal comfort, and Garrett’s needs.

I want to get into a normal exercise routine.

I want to wean myself away from meat. I doubt I’ll be a super-strict vegetarian, but my only exceptions will be a traditional dish of a country that I’ll otherwise never get to try, the occasional fish, or if I’m starving (in the literal sense). Otherwise, no meat.

I want to read what is in my library by the age of 25. I’ve read that the books that effect us as children or young adults lose their umph as we grow older. The book hasn’t changed, but our response to their morals and their truths weaken. I don’t want to be passive to what I read in the future, so while I’ve got a collection of classics I’m pretty damn proud of, I want to read them while I’m still impressionable and will learn the most from their beauty. I’ve got 4 years to read around 150 books (and growing.)

I want to spend my money on companies that are socially responsible. Animal testing and environment aside (not that they’re not important, mankind is just my priority.) Corporations are stronger than ever, but to place my money in companies that genuinely care about their consumers and their employers is one of the best ways to make sure that Big Money keeps up their business ethics, and terrible companies will either lose my business or begin to match their competitors.  I started boycotting McDonalds years ago, and now I’ve targeted other companies and supporting more local businesses. Yes, it is more expensive, but at least I’m not feeding an ever growing monster.

Ignore my vanity - I want wavy hair that doesn’t make me look in the mirror for an hour. I also want to stop wearing make-up. At least the heavy kind. So instead of me investing in cosmetics, I’ll be researching and trying all the different creams and natural remedies to get my skin even and glowing and healthy.

I want my parents to come back down to earth and start treating my sister and I like their family. They’re lost in the hell of divorce, and it would be nice to get to know them without their baggage.

Also, I want to write my family’s history. Some of the best books I’ve ever read have been detailed (if not a little embellished) accounts of their family. (Roots? Everything is Illuminated? Read ‘em if you haven’t) I’ve been more in touch with my grandparents, and the stories that they tell me are FANTASTIC. As a teenager (and this comes with no surprise) I thought we were as dull as can be, but now I understand the values I have, they personality traits, the reactions to pain and love. So sure, writing down the Adkins’ and the Fenney’s past will certainly be a self-gratifying accomplishment. But my family has been asking someone to do this for years. Why not me?

I want to make Garrett more secure in me. I have plenty of plausible reasons why he should think that I’m going to bail on him any second. None of which are about my personality “flaws” (that’s just me, buddy, tough beans) but about my reactions. I need to calm his fears and find better ways to communicate that I’m with him, even to his dismay.

I want to find a family of friends that I’m secure in. My friends come from all over, all with different backgrounds living in hundreds of different lifestyles. I don’t have a “unit” and I can’t control the speed of which some of my present friends “grow up.” Then again, maybe it’s me, maybe I have too many rules.

I want to cook more! More so, I want to be a good cook. But to be good you must do. So, dammit, do.

Oh, and I want to continue to write in this.