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Today, I have come to the realization that simple, physically laborious activities are the most enjoyable. There is something about working with my own two hands that I find rewardingly meditative. As much as I love purely mental activities, such as writing, I think I find true understanding in, not thinking heavily, but enjoying the beauty of sweat dripping from my brow, dirt covering my hands, and the straining of my meager muscles against their bounds: pure sensation without analysis or scrutiny.

Once again, this blog post has nothing to do with philosophy or anything we have discussed in class, but it is pertinent to myself and I felt it worth typing up a few words about.

Search For Synthesis

Yellow leaves tumble, tumultuous, plotting my peaceful resignation to the moment. I lay, still as the dead, temporarily as wise as the tree beneath whose branches I existed. Grass blades quiver with my slight, minute movements, for as still as I may strive to be, I remain a creature of impatience, of comfort and ignorance. I have yet to learn the patient wisdom of the woods; I have yet to find the stillness of the mountains or the quiet of the trees.

When I meditate, I feel time slow, close to a halt. Each second feels like a minute, each minute an hour, each hour a lifetime. The absence of sight creates a blackness that blinds, and the quiet creates a silence that deafens. This blackness, this silence, and this expansion of time are antithetical to my usual experience. They are singular, they are One. In their Oneness, they are bold and grandiose: all encompassing. My usual experiences are Many. In their Manyness, they are small, seemingly infinitesimal. They are a thesis to my meditative antithesis. I am searching for a synthesis.

Beneath the tree, my face is wet with rain. My breath bursts visibly from between my lips, and my legs shiver slightly. Above me yellow leaves are still tumbling through crisp autumnal air. I am at peace, and, for the moment, I am content with nothing more than leaves and living. In my contentedness, I fall more silent than usual, my legs cease their shivering, and I hardly stir a single grass blade. Time passes slowly and the soft patter of rain forms a singular sound. Yellow leaves still tumble, though they seem to grow in their boldness. They cut a stark contrast against the grey sky, and I am suddenly filled with loud and quiet, light and dark, Oneness and Manyness. I know, then, that I have only just begun to embark on a life-long search for my synthesis, for the reconciliation of the two forces of life: emotion and reason, good and bad, yin and yang. I feel one step closer to understanding myself, and because of this, I feel I may yet learn the wisdom of the woods, find the stillness of the mountains and the quiet of the trees, for if it lies anywhere, I am sure it is within me.