G

I have been wondering lately about greatness.

About what denotes greatness, what creates it, what inspires it, what embodies it, what expresses it. Correctly, if such a thing is possible.

I have wondered after its commonality, about our generalizations about it, about our ambiguity towards it, about our standards for qualifying for it.

What is greatness, I would like to know.

Speaking in terms of size, I immediately think of massive galaxies, terrific expanses of sky, mountains upon mountains, heights and masses, miles and miles and miles, as far as the eye can see, or not see at all.

Is this great?

When I think of greatness in relation to power, I wander towards strong leaders, decisions affected, physical might, religious movements, taking stands, fasting, prayer after prayer after prayer.

Or is it ability? Is it to do something with greatness? With great leadership or agility or grace? Is it the talent for a specific trade or craft? Is it quantities we can we impressed by? Is it a quality of intricate and intrinsic goodness?

Is goodness greatness?

Can what is great ever be concentrated, dependent on, or in spite of what we find good?

What then can we really mean by this word? Its undeniable vagueness, its tip-toeing around definitive meaning, switching from one side to the next, as soon as we tend to understand, changing everything right under our noses.

I couldn't really say. So far, I'd say there is little I understand about the vastness of greatness, let alone the vastness it is able to describe. What can we call great? And after that, the question still lingers: are we even right?

I wouldn't say I was perfectly content in all areas of life until I started fussing over these questions. I've spent many insomniac-driven nights staring at my ceiling over nothing at all, let alone over a racing mind that never tires. But I also would not say that I am sorry it was brought to my attention, whether deliberately or not. Having recently been burdened (or maybe, blessed) with the task to achieve greatness, (with perfect and sincere certainty, at that), I have been forced to consider what that means to me, if anything at all. And for what it then means, if those things are what I believe I am capable of obtaining or being or living for. From there, I've drawn blank after unrelenting blank.

And each questions seems to be followed by another, quite equally unanswerable in any particular way. For example, what if what I consider greatness is not especially great to anyone but myself? Will I have achieved in spite of, or should we all suddenly start feeling very foolish for wanting what we want? (Note the question on question tactic.) For a second, it doesn't matter. All I can say is, we've hit a snag. And I don't really know if we can expect to reach the bottom of anything before this has pulled further and further, unraveling down to nothing but a jumbled pile of threads on the floor.

I don't know that it's necessarily fair to ourselves, or anyone, to judge our best moments by what we've accomplished. Rather, what might matter more is how hard we've tried. I have failed at more than I have conquered, but the times where my efforts have been most valiant shouldn't be ignored by what I wasn't able to rise above. Should they?

I really don't know. I'm merely suggesting that we 360 our thinking for as long as we can stand it, maybe just long enough to notice what we've missed, or never knew.

There is greatness in sadness. In everyday existence. In huge accomplishments. In silence, in solitude, in empty space. All these things have a place to be defined by greatness. So what then are we so worried about?

Everything is not great, and yet I tend to think that anything could be, if given proper space to expand or ruminate or settle. This is not to say that we celebrate every small mediocrity, that we worry about hurt feelings, pat everyone equally on the back, and look the the other way.

Greatness can be exemplified in the smallest way you choose to do something with exception. These are our every day tasks. And opportunities. We can think through our minor moments. We can challenge ourselves by them.

Still, I feel a slight concern that being charged with greatness, to achieve great things in great places, to be noticed, to show (I suppose) positive change, will leave my audience, however small, scratching their dizzy heads. At, first of all, my unwavering ability to waver. The big question mark that has become my face and mind, and in turn, most things I do. Some may conclude insanity, others, disappointment, in my ability to be classically accomplished or to even make much sense.

But it is fine. It is well, in fact. I understand what is expected. I'm just hoping for a little grace, and perhaps a little understanding of my own. I'm hoping for watchful eyes that recognize greatness in all of our efforts, in what we hope for, in what surrounds us, in the truly unexplainable.

For now, for me, this is a place to start.

For what?

Human simplicity = one baffled girl.

It is so easy to know better, and yet at the very same time to allow anything to change the way we see the world. It seems that almost nothing has to happen for us to hate what's before us, to question what we believe, to look around and seem disappointed. In the seconds following, the very same amount of nothing can dramatically move us to face the other way. We have given up power to everyone and everything. Suddenly the definition of who influences what and WHY (why matters) is hazy.

And I don't think that, or therefore we, make(s) sense. Either we're moody or not to be taken seriously. Or we flux with the weather. Or we expect too much and then forget what we wanted in the first place. We're a mess.

So if this is merely our emotions calling, wanting to know where we've been and if they might stop by, if they might move in, even, and take permanent and unforgiving root in everything we do, then I sense trouble. I foresee the necessity of unshakable faith, and in that very breath I doubt our ability to even recognize our mountain-moving abilities, even with every bell and whistle sounding high.

To be plain, I find this quite fucked up. Why not, right? It is not that we find the world inevitably evil or confusing, or because we have destroyed as far as the eye can see. It is also not because we have done anything good, whatever small thing we may have given back to this planet, this place, to each other. Essentially? We do not mean much. But, we mean. We intend, we indicate. We define in the midst of making the most of, and if we cannot do that joyfully, the least, at the very bottom of the edge of the end, we can do is be willful. We can live according to wanting to live.

Having recently been deemed emotional, such a thing I'd dare not argue against, I've (dangerously) tried to understand our constant persuasiveness, our minute-by-minute ability to flip out or close in or crack up or break down. And I don't care for it, to be truthful. I'd take comfort in a tad more predictability. Our variety and uncontainable attraction to it makes us a minefield of broken humanity. We have messed up, badly. We have stopped traveling, or never started. We have stopped standing still, stopped noticing, or never looked. We're twitching around, crying one minute and laughing the next, not making a molecule of sense with our life philosophies, with our mysteries, with our time. We're fretting over history or unfinished business, and in turn, ignoring what we may find before us.

Is it sad? Or is the irony, of even just that question, enough to make our hearts break in unison, a circle of paradox in the form of one long, resounding c-r-a-c-k.

Really, though. I think the only thing wrong with the way we feel things, the way we weigh a moment in the palm of our hand, fuss over it, dissect it, shred its remains, is that when all doors have been closed to it, when all the murmuring ends and when the split-second has gone by, we stay troubled. We still let what we've heard or seen or done, accidentally or otherwise, ruin what remains. Perspective, here and always, is key. We excuse our present condition by our past lives, by what has happened and what we have allowed to happen.

Maybe this. I don't really care for rain. It's untimely. It's ruined the best of our days, our plans that require sunshine, caused accidents, kept us indoors. But knowing, when it comes, how badly we need it? How that simple moisture enlivens our surroundings, looking out the window to the grayness, to the clouds, when thunder sounds and lightning blazes, even as I write this now, is not so bad. It's a temporary condition. We get through it. We are, to be quite dramatic, the better for it.

And when winter closes in again (all too quickly), and everything seems perpetually and possibly forever dead, some other month or moment will roll around and remind me that our world has not died, but merely slept, closed its wide eyes to find some time to dream. In this, there is solace.

There's a downpour, and there is a madness. And all it takes is one corner, one bend in the hypothetical (or perhaps actual) road. And we see that the sky has opened up again, seeming appropriately enormous, full of light, so much, in fact, that you can forget what light has ever looked like before, because here and now, with the still greyness floating up over our heads, is something new.

With this in mind, it would be in our very best interest, I boldly assume, to take our lights as they are given to us, to behold rather than belabor them. Living not necessarily as if it is out of our hands, as if we are victims, as if we have not chosen. And if we can, we might do our best to not bored, or lethargic, or disconnected. We can know what we want, but we must have what we have. No one's asking you to stop here and die here. And if anyone should demand such things of you, you are perfectly entitled to decline. And maybe everything has not gone step by frame by step. But it never does. And if it did, you would want other things.

I'm quite sure we're supposed to think about it. We're supposed to think about what we want without regreting where we now stand. We are to, in our meantime, while we continue to aim, while we keep one eye open, merely realize that our present is, well, present. And in that there is goodness. Unspeakable difficulty, at times, and most likely not at all that you'd imagined. It's rain, perhaps, but not only that. It's promise. It's a continuous resistance to that very human urge to gripe, to label, to over-condemn ourselves.

Make good. It's there to be found. Don't stay forever, if you can't, if you simply aren't able, don't want to, etc. But there's something to be said for deep breath taking.

Start slow. Then start again.