“ My soul is a flat tyre,” writes one of my idealised writers.
I giggle at the consequence of arriving at a shattered experience after such a long life. He died of old age. But I must remind myself sometimes of the inability of a human being we idolize to be perfect. If you ask me who my idols are, I can count them with my fingers.
There are not many but there is enough to give me hope for as long as I live my own small life. An idol is not a God but a near image of him. It is a person equipped in his or her journey to move you towards a light so encompassing that you want to hold life in there for as long as it takes.
Yes I love things of beauty. But there is a warm gift in being an observer of beauty. Inside such a bubble, you are not affected by the esteemed-ness created by mankind to enjoy its own ego. For there is nothing more important to God, than your soul, I believe.
The rest is what we make up as we live this short life with our behavioural badges, as beings of achievement. I like John Cleese’s struggle with achievement. He is a comedian, who thought strenuously and said preposterously, “ how to defend yourself against a banana.” I do not know the end of his rant but I think the banana is undefeatable.
But there is a reason beauty is an endeavour I look forward to. I do it because it reminds me of hope. The feeling of being shattered inside because of pain leaves one empty many years. Yet hope is a cry you make to relieve your fears. It is a reach you do with your heart, not your hands. It is a pull up to your knees to rise from under the mud that life throws at you. Hope is a sweet laughter in the eyes of children you want to save as a result.
Hope is a moment where you are left in the clouds, clear as blue that God exists, despite the noise in the heartless church you have known all your life.
I look to the night sky and think of it as my dark friend. I ponder the green of trees and think of their wisdom. Nature dear reader, I have found, hears the lonely heart’s agony, so it sends it stars and swaying leaves.
But if we look around us, and the tattered things of this world’s news, it makes sense to say that we look like a shattered bunch. The image of a staggering man lost at war comes to mind. If we are the world and we have been warring ourselves, with our man made things, and we are heading home, may I ask why the sad look on our face?
Is it because we have lost the meaning of hope? Or is it because we have forgotten what beauty means? What is the use of all these things we fight for? But keep that image and think of what the worn out soldier wants to come home to. Is it not beauty he longs for? Is it not the reminder of soft things he aches to hold?
The world is in dire need of a delicate softness like a woman is in abundance of. Our country cries hope for the woman’s soft touch. I like to think of a woman as a place of secret whisperings, because only a woman can understand the depth of pain, and its tearing screams. But a woman is also always in hope for a man’s heroism. Without one, the other has no reason for yearning. In such a passion, we must always try to live confidently.
“To play without passion is inexcusable” says Ludwig Beethoven.
But I shall end with my idols and my own dreams of a better world.
I love to watch the workings of people I adore. I love to see how they manage to hold it together, despite the noisy world. How they forge ahead, with their vision to help mankind, to lift the despair, to bring life to the broken and to softly leave the shattered place they found in a better place.
I love to see how the people and children they touch do not have to worship them because they too know, that without their ego, they will always be home to their own loneliness.
Unconditional love is born that way.