Purpose of Writing

And what is the purpose of my writings? Do I dare contemplate? If everything was governed by my dictates, that is, if I were listened to, what would result? Why do I even think about writing in this way?

As a young man I am finding within myself an unmatched desire to convey to the populous of the earth the essence of beauty. I want to paint the most accurate picture with my words. I want my words to be scalable, both available and accessible to the widest array of listeners. Both as deep as a puddle in simplicity and as deep as the ocean in complexity and substance.

Last night a thought occurred to me.

If the things of value are immeasurable around us, why should we be so loud in our expressions of what it is we see, when the others have eyes also? Why should we yell at one another? Is it not enough to sing along to the harmony that is already playing? To be is much greater than to say one is.

I’ve learned in my few years that the wise speak little, and what they do say, if listened to, has great substance. The reality and wonder of this world is consistently and overwhelmingly too great to put into any words. Each instant in one’s life on this earth contains more sensory data than one could spend many years describing, even the most eloquent and detailed authors. And our life is made up of an uncountable number of these instances! Why should someone try to capture the beauty of the spiritual landscape if we cannot even express in words the immeasurable intricacies of the earthly landscape?

All art could be pissed on and taken to the dump by any who does not know what appreciation is. The Lord of the Universe was crucified. He or his followers seldom ever seemed to truly compel the masses or move them to receive the beauty. They just continued on their day seeking for the beauty elsewhere, or, well, not seeking at all.

Quiet. Who is quiet enough to see even a glimpse of the beauty? Our hearts are so terribly noisy that we couldn’t help but build roads, buildings, and institutions to catch the soundwaves coming from their internal discord. The vibrations bounce off the walls, inside and out, soothing our need to express what we have and have not found. Most of us seem to be entirely unaware, and each is unaware, to a very large extent. The wisest man sitting atop a mountain has learned at least that he is unaware.

Alas, who am I? Writing with a vast irritation at all the noise. Shouldn’t I be in the woods? Away from the city and the noise? Shouldn’t I be meditating and listening for the voice of the Lord in every waking instance of my life? I suppose the monks have got something right. However the householders, the ones who live this way in the city are the real masters.

I have a wife and a child. Even they don’t know what it is that is within me like I do. So must I make the noise to express it? Or let it flow silently into the ways and culture of our home? I don’t think I can say.

I know that I do not know much. A portion of what I do know seems to be made up of facts that are entirely inconsequential. What I want to know is substance. I want to be soaked thoroughly in substance and wisdom, to know God and His Love. That has consequence. It has the most consequence! As a man thinketh, so is he.

Then grumpy is me I suppose. Perhaps tending toward isolation am I also.